


Songbird

by athena_crikey



Series: Songbird [3]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Drama, Gen, Supernaturally Attractive, UST, casefic, h/c, past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-09-21 21:46:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 43,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9568109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: The idea of a songbird working is unlikely; the idea of one working in a police station is unfathomable. They’re beautiful, delicate things, all grace and sensuality. Made for pleasure, plain and simple.





	1. Early Days (part 1)

_Noli me tangere_ , for Caesar’s I am,  
And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.

\- “Whoso List to Hunt,” Sir Thomas Wyatt

 

Oxford City Police is the unspoken goal of every young officer in the county. In their dreams it is a plum among police jurisdictions, where gentlemen criminals concede defeat after fair chases, the only rowdy citizens to worry about are students on Boat Race night, and you hardly ever get kicked in the nadgers interviewing belligerent drunks. 

So when Peter Jakes lands the position of DS to the CID day shift, chuffed is nothing to it. 

“Cowley Station CID,” he announces to his mates in the pub over drinks; it’s a Friday night and they’ve filled a long table out, uniform on one side and CID on the other by established order. The pub is in a basement; it’s a long room that stretches under the street, windowless and thick with smoke and the smell of stale beer and chips. The overhead lamps cast a dingy light; the floor is mercifully carpeted in shadows. 

The Kidlington day shift is a mix of young men who still dream of better things, and their elders who have come to accept their mediocrity. The latter pass knowing looks from one to another at Jakes’ announcement over the tops of their glasses. Jakes catches them and darkens.

“What?”

Bill Samuels, the DS who raised Jakes up and shepherded him through his exam, gives him a pitying look. “Cowley CID – that’s Fred Thursday’s turf.”

“My new guv’nor,” confirms Jakes, who has met the man a total of once, during an interview that was more a formality than anything – he has the collars, and more importantly, the seniority. His impression had been of strength, solidity, and suppressed emotion – which emotion, Jakes hadn’t been able to read. “What about it?”

Samuels, two decades older than Jakes and with the war wounds to prove it, frowns over the top of his pint. “You want to watch yourself with him, is all. He’s a proper old relic, still believes in truth and justice. Won’t take kindly to you putting your hand out under the table. Comes down hard on that sort of thing; turfed out half the men of his age here.” For what, he doesn’t say. Jakes, sensing the delicacy, doesn’t ask. He didn’t get where he is by bollocking his elders. 

On the other side of the table Plant, a sergeant who’s been in uniform so long the younger lads joke he’ll be sprouting soon, gives a careless shrug and leans in, tongue wagging. “Oh, there’s plenty of rumours about old Fred; only half of them could be true, but which half? They say he was Secret Service in the war; that he keeps a service revolver in his desk for disappearing inconvenient suspects with; that he personally brought the Chancellor of Oxford in for questioning.”

“That last is a lie,” returns Chambers, who came from Oxford. “But he did arrest the secretary.”

“I heard he has a songbird.” The words from a small PC at the end of the table shut up the rest of the coppers abruptly as a gunshot. His neighbour, Four-Eyes Figgins, snorts derisively. 

“Don’t be daft. How could a DI afford one? It’d be beyond the pocket of the Chief Super.” 

“Maybe he won her in a card game,” puts in Jenkins, until last week Jakes’ fellow DC. 

“Maybe he bagged her with his service revolver,” suggests someone down the end of the table, to general sniggering.

“I’ve heard a proper songbird can knock you out with a kiss – maybe she overdid it with her previous keeper and the bloke kicked it, and Thursday was on scene to cover it up.”

“However it came about, it’s true enough,” replies Chambers, setting down his drink as all eyes converge on him, hungry for information. “Only met him once; it was before I made detective.”

“ _Him_?” questions Jakes, eyebrows riding up.

“Oh, you’ll meet him,” replies Chambers, smiling wolfishly. “He works at the station.”

  
***

Jakes has never met a songbird. He’s known in the nick for his tact and discretion, but in county that’s not enough to get you put on choice cases with the kind of society that could afford to keep one. Those are snapped up by the DCS and his lackey McNeill, leaving no crumbs leftover to sprinkle down onto CID’s plate.

The idea of a songbird working is unlikely; the idea of one working in a police station is unfathomable. They’re beautiful, delicate things, all grace and sensuality. Made for pleasure, plain and simple. Seeing one in a station would be like seeing a Monet in a Liverpool bar. 

How could a DI afford one? Stranger still, why would he put it to work in his nick?

  
***

Jakes starts at Cowley Station the first Monday in March, when the trees are unfurling shivering leaves and the memory of ice still lies over the flattened grass. Kidlington nick was a squat brick building which had once been a carriage house; the bricked up doors were still obvious on the outside, while the inside had a sense of a large space put to poor use.

Cowley Station on the other hand sits in the middle of a block of sandstone buildings and looks as though it could have been designed to be something much grander than a police station. It has a gabled roof and pillars supporting the stone arch of the porch, under which the ubiquitous blue lantern hangs. Inside it has the usual smell of fatty food, coffee and fags, with just a whiff of wet wool and turpentine. Jakes is directed by the duty sergeant up the stairs which climb to the first floor, a wide staircase that overshadows the entrance hall. 

Upstairs the station is the typical public office fare: red linoleum floors, whitewashed walls with corkboards featuring the latest posters and placards, dusty overhead lamps pouring down yellowish light. He sees the doors marked CID and pushes through them. Inside is a wide but shallow office split into two by a panel with a glass window in it. On one side are a group of desks, on the other are two more and the door into a separate office with windows overlooking the main room. 

There’s a young man sitting at the desk with its back to the enclosed office, looking a cross between an assistant and a guard dog. He’s wearing a cheap suit with a crooked tie; Jakes automatically reaches to straighten his own and is reassured by the crispness of his collar. 

Then the young man looks up, and for an instant Jakes forgets the world entirely – forgets the names he’s memorized and the location of his bus stop and the nervousness in his belly, forgets to breathe – and just stares. 

The young copper has bright blue eyes, a clear colour that sears itself into Jakes’ brain and carves itself out an indelible place in his memory. The lines of his face are sharp and clean, his skin beautifully pale and shot across with a light dusting of freckles that makes Jakes want to brush his thumb over them. His hair is red-gold, and gleams in the sunlight streaming in from the window to his left, hypnotic as a dancing flame. 

Then he blinks and the moment is gone, and Jakes is standing on the CID threshold staring like some star-struck youth. 

“You must be DS Jakes,” says the man, in a soft, low tone. “DC Morse. DI Thursday’s bagman.”

 _Bloody hell_ , thinks Jakes, _the fool made him his_ bagman _?_ Beyond the pure shock of it and the astounding bias it demonstrates, it rankles. As ranking sergeant, that position is by rights his. 

The songbird does not, at least, reach out to shake hands. Instead he lifts his hand – a long, narrow hand with a delicate wrist – and raps on the glass behind him. “DI Thursday will want to see you,” he says.

Jakes wonders just what exactly he’s gotten himself into.

  
***

“Ah, Sergeant Jakes,” says Thursday, rising to his feet and putting his pipe down on its rest. The office is long and narrow, with Thursday’s desk and visitor’s chair occupying the space on the left, and a low table and set of chairs set over a worn rug whose pattern has long since faded into memory occupying the space on the right. The window behind Thursday looks out over the motor pool, a busy scene below.

Thursday himself is a big man, broad and bear-like, with a wide mouth that could smile or frown easily – Jakes doesn’t yet know which. 

Thursday gestures him to the chair, and he steps forward to sit. 

“Welcome to Cowley nick. You’ve met Morse?”

Jakes nods, once, thinking back to his moment of breathless wonder with a feeling of needling irritation. 

“He can show you around; he’s got your desk prepared for you. He knows most of the faces and where things are kept, should be a good guide for you. I’d do it myself, only our last DCS left abruptly and I’m holding the fort until the Chief Constable assigns us a new one; anytime now would be favourite.” Thursday pauses to take a hard look at Jakes. He straightens and lays his heavy hands down on the table in an unspoken show of strength, face taking on an almost threatening aspect. The room seems to darken with his sudden shift in mood; the force of his personality is such that Jakes feels himself trying to shrink back, to make himself small and insignificant. 

When he begins again, it’s in a hard, flat tone. “I’ll tell you straight up because I know how lines out in county can get blurred: keep your nose clean and mind your work and I’ll be behind you come hell or high water. Start down a crooked path and I’ll come down on you like a ton of bricks. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Thursday leans back, sermon evidently finished. The heaviness in the room disappears as though it was never there, leaving behind just a plain office with a plain man seated behind the desk. He picks up his pipe again and takes a pull. “As for your duties; we’ve just wrapped up an involved murder investigation and sent home our borrowed men to Carshall; things are still a bit of a mess about the place.” 

“The Stromming case; I read about it in the papers.” _Prima Donna Gone Mad_ was the most recent headline, the story detailing the case of a woman mad with jealousy who had murdered twice before being arrested on stage. 

“It’s generated a hell of a lot of paperwork. Suspect committed suicide so there’ll be no court case, but we’ve got the ACC breathing down our necks to explain away a death in the cells – Morse is busy with that. Which leaves you free to take on the other active cases.” He pulls two files out to the centre of his desk and opens the first. “Ongoing investigation into car thefts; so far no major leads or promising suspects, but acquaint yourself with it and speak to PC Strange – he filed the latest reports.” He closes the one file and opens the other. “Suicide of a Merton don. Recently diagnosed with cancer, so there’s a solid reason. See the pathologist and speak to the wife; should have the job done and dusted in no time.”

“Yes, sir,” replies Jakes, taking the two files from Thursday. 

“Check in with me before quitting time tonight; we can see how you’re settling in.”

Jakes nods. “Yes, sir.”

  
***

Jakes spends the morning becoming better acquainted with the station; he is shown around the building’s two floors, and introduced to the other men in the CID who direct him to the nearest pub for lunch. It doesn’t strike him as a copper’s pub – it’s too bright and upscale for that, but it serves a decent lager.

In the afternoon he goes through the paperwork required of him on starting his new position, filling out and signing forms and wavers. 

With that complete he packs his new notebook and pencil into his pocket, and makes the trip downstairs to sign out a car. He has the pathologist to see. 

Jakes has been to Oxford on and off since his childhood, but he doesn’t feel he knows most of the city well, and certainly not the suburbs of Cowley. Thus when he makes his trip to Cowley General to see the pathologist it’s with a map half-folded on the seat beside him. 

The main hospital pavilion seems new; the linoleum floors shine and the walls are crisp with fresh paint. He follows the signs leading to Pathology; down a flight of stairs into the basement, and through a winding series of corridors. Finally he comes out at the end of a hallway at room 033; the mortuary. 

“Hello?” Jakes pushes the doors open and steps inside. His voice echoes slightly in the tiled interior of the mortuary; high-set windows looking out onto grass let in long rays of sunshine. There’s a sharp, chemical smell – Jakes suspects it’s preferable to the alternative. 

From somewhere nearby there’s the sound of chair legs scratching against the floor. A short, plump man in an argyle sweater and horn rim glasses steps out of an adjacent door. “Dr DeBryn?” enquires Jakes, name memorised from the case report. 

“And who might you be?”

“DS Peter Jakes. Assigned to the death of Dr Richards.”

“A call first is often appreciated,” says DeBryn sardonically, but he leads Jakes over to the wall-high steel door set into the wall opposite the windows and opens it. There are three trays; high, middle and low. Only the middle is occupied, taken up by a long form draped in white. 

“Barbiturate overdose; he had been given some to help with the pain. He took twice the lethal overdose; it was all over in less than an hour.” DeBryn folds back the sheet to reveal a middle-aged man with receding hair and a slightly hooked nose. 

“Incurable, was it? This cancer?”

DeBryn shifts his weight, answering in an even tone. “Yes. His health would have gradually failed over the course of perhaps six months.”

“But he would have died.”

“Oh yes. Undoubtedly.”

Jakes stares down at the dead man. He looks much the same as many: grey skin, body somehow more compact in death. “So you think he took the stuff himself?” 

DeBryn takes up the sheet and pulls it back to cover over the body. “That, sergeant, is your job,” he says, dryly.

  
***

Jakes returns to the nick to refresh his memory of the case notes. He already has Mrs Richards’ address in his notebook, but he wants to know a bit more about the professor before he goes blundering in to meet the man’s widow.

Morse is still seated at his desk when Jakes returns, elbows on his blotter and one hand tangled in his unruly hair. His back is curved like a cat’s, legs crossed at the ankles over one of the bars of his chair, throwing good posture to the wind. His eyes flash up to note Jakes’ arrival, but he says nothing and looks back to the papers he’s studying. 

Jakes glances across the room and catches some of the other men watching him – watching him watch Morse, he realises. It’s a test, he knows then, in their eyes if no one else’s. See how he reacts – see how long it is before he says something. He glances to Thursday; he wonders if the DI has the same approach. But he said nothing about his pet, has set no boundaries concerning Morse. 

He returns to his desk silently, sitting down in his squeaking chair and opening the file on Dr Richards. Greats Professor at Merton, an Oxford man himself. Two years in the war before being invalided home with a bullet in his back. Diagnosed with lung cancer a month ago, given six months to live. A short, clean summary of a life. 

Jakes looks up to find Morse watching him through shuttered eyes, head cradled in his hand. Jakes’ heart gives a little throb; he takes a deep, angry breath. “What’re you staring at?”

“Are you going to see Mrs Richards?”

“What of it?”

“You should take me along,” proposes Morse, lifting his head and straightening with unconscious grace, back arching subtly as he stretches. His limp collar pulls away from his neck and for an instant Jakes can see the soft beat of his heart in the base of his throat.

“Why’s that, then?” asks Jakes, frowning in part at the constable’s presumption and in part at his own traitorous heart, still thrumming.

“Because I knew her husband.”

His frown deepens; there had been no note to that effect in the file. “How’s that?”

“I’ve spent some time at Oxford,” replies Morse flatly, face suddenly inexpressive. 

“Student, were you?” asks Jakes sarcastically, deliberately running his gaze over Morse’s thin, supple frame. A silent statement: I know what you are. 

Morse stiffens, pale skin flushing a soft, velvety red, eyes narrowing. “It was just an offer; it’s your choice.”

“Too right it is.” On the one hand, he doesn’t want Thursday’s pet feeling he can wriggle his way into any investigation that takes his fancy. On the other, he’s still curious about the songbird. “You can come; but don’t get invested in the case.”

Morse gives him a dry look; Jakes returns it with an unimpressed one. “Fetch your coat, then; we’re off.”

  
***

Morse’s coat, like the rest of his clothes, is cheap and inappropriate for the lingering chill of early March. The photos Jakes has seen of songbirds have them in couture dresses – the birds being the only ones he’s ever paid any mind to. But left to his own imagination he would have put a male songbird in a bespoke suit, something perfectly tailored matched with a silk tie and socks, and a well-cut wool overcoat to offset its wearer’s trim lines.

Morse wears an old car coat that’s a size too large for him, its cuffs hanging down to his knuckles. Perhaps Thursday is a tight-fisted bugger; perhaps he thinks dressing his pet in cheap rags will disguise his nature. If it’s the latter he’s sorely mistaken; it shines through like sunlight through a stand of trees, obvious in some ways and subtle in others. 

“Right at the lights,” says Morse, when Jakes begins to rev the engine to shoot through. He slows and puts on the signal light.

“Been there before, have you?”

“No; I memorised the address from the file.”

When he had a chance to see the file is a question Jakes would like to know the answer to, but presumably Thursday shares most things with his bagman. Or indeed everything, he thinks darkly, and his mind is suddenly taken up with the memory of hands on his hips and hot breath on the back of his neck. He sets his teeth and forces his thoughts to focus on the road.

  
***

Mrs Richards lives in a three storey semi-detached house near the University Press, which Morse points out as they go past. The house itself is rather gothic looking, with tall peaked roofs and long thin windows; the door is painted police tunic blue. The house looks too narrow for its proportions, somehow wrong to the eye.

Mrs Richards is younger than Jakes had expected; there must have been nearly a twenty year age gap between her and her husband, he estimates. Her hair is bottle blonde and done up in tightly-set curls; her lips are peony pink, her clothes fashionable if downplayed. Not quite black, but suitably dark in tone to indicate her recent bereavement.

“DS Jakes,” says Jakes, and then with a wave at Morse, “DC Morse. Can we come in for a few minutes?”

“It’s about Paul, is it? He would have been horrified to know such a fuss was being made.” She sighs but steps back to let them in. 

She shows them into the sitting room, a wide room with its furniture evenly spaced against the burgundy walls. Despite the cramped look the house had from the outside, there is no sense of narrowness here; the room feels almost too wide, somehow cold and unfeeling. It’s been kept immaculately clean, and there is very little ornamentation to give it any sense of character. 

“Please, sit down. Would you like a drink?” She indicates a decanter on the sideboard; Jakes shakes his head.

“No, thank you,” He seats himself on one end of the sofa, Morse perching crookedly on the arm of an easy chair in an oddly graceless slump. Mrs Richards takes the sofa opposite, folding her hands neatly in her lap and crossing her legs. 

“What can I do for you?”

“We just have a few questions; routine in cases like these.” He looks to Morse, who is looking at Mrs Richards. It’s a DC’s job to take notes, but he doesn’t seem to have any inclination to pull out a notebook. Jakes does instead, prickling with irritation. “He had just heard about his cancer, is that right?”

She nods. “Just a month ago. They said that in just six months…” she produces a handkerchief to dab at her eyes with. “Paul was completely bowled over by it – well, who wouldn’t be?”

“Had he been depressed lately?”

“Of course he had. He started to talk about wrapping up his work, stopping seeing students. I think dealing with all their youth and optimism was too hard for him.”

“Did he ever talk about taking his own life?”

She sniffles. “Once or twice late at night he said he wanted to go before it all got too awful, before the sickness and the pain set in properly. I never imagined though, that…” she turns away for a moment, handkerchief raised to her face. Jakes takes the opportunity to jot down a few notes. 

“Did he leave a note?” asks Morse, suddenly. Jakes looks to him, and so is watching when his gracelessness falls away from him like a sheet dropping to the floor. He hardly moves, but somehow he suddenly catches the light like a prism, the long line of his spine drawing attention to his narrow hips and the curve of his thigh beneath his tight trousers. His blue eyes are bright as sapphires, the heat of his gaze cast squarely on Mrs Richards.

Jakes tears his eyes away to look over to her as she glances up and so sees the change come over her face. Her hand slips down, forgotten, as she stares. Her colour comes back into her face, a slow flush rising from her neck; her lips part and a hungry exhalation escapes her. 

For a moment, no one moves. Then Morse shifts and the spell is broken; he is once more a gangling DC sitting sloppily on the arm of a chair in the home of a bereaved widow. 

“I beg your pardon?” asks Mrs Richards, frowning in confusion.

“Did he leave a note?” repeats Morse politely. 

“I – no. No, he didn’t. But why would he – it was obvious…” She breaks off, looking from Morse to Jakes. “Do you suspect something untoward?”

“No ma’am,” replies Jakes, suppressing the urge to glare at Morse; that can wait for later. “These are just routine questions in the case of a sudden death.”

Mrs Richards gives him a surprisingly sharp look. “I see. Are you satisfied, then, that my husband took his own life?”

“I’m sure my inspector will be signing off on the case soon,” says Jakes, giving a standard non-answer. “Thank you for your time.” He rises and looks to Morse, who slips off the armchair and stands with an awkward hop. “We’ll be in touch,” he says, as they step out into the cold March afternoon. Mrs Richards watches them all the way down the drive to the Jag.

  
***

“What the _hell_ was that?” demands Jakes, the moment they close the car doors behind them.

Morse looks at him quizzically. “Which part?”

 _The whole goddamn lot of it_ , thinks Jakes, but replies sharply with: “The part where you tried to seduce a grieving widow.”

That Morse did it on purpose, he’s certain of. He’s clearly capable of turning his attractiveness on and off like a switch. 

“You think she’s grieving?” returns Morse, eyes watchful. “Grief, real grief, doesn’t let you turn from sorrow to lust in an instant.”

“You’re a goddamn songbird, it’s not a fair comparison.”

Morse gives him a flat look. “Of course it is. Even more so, likely. If she hadn’t reacted, we’d have known she was what she pretends to be. There is a limit to who I can pull, and those who are truly grief-stricken are beyond it.”

Jakes wants to ask who else is, but that’s beside the point at the moment. Instead he says, “So what, according to you she offed her old man, is that it?”

Morse shrugs. “She’s just not what she’s pretending to be. That’s all.”

“Maybe it’s just decency on her part. Could be their relationship was in tatters, but she doesn’t want anyone to know.”

“Maybe she’s relieved he’s dead,” returns Morse. 

“And where does that leave us? Back where we started – no evidence, perfect motive for suicide, and just the fact that you turned her head to go on.”

“That’s not all,” says Morse, raising a hand to run along the interior of the Jag’s window in an idle, careless gesture. “I told you I knew Richards. Before.”

“Before?”

“Before I came to the Force. He was vivacious, full of life and spirit. Not at all the sort to kill himself.”

“That was before the cancer,” replies Jakes.

“He’d nearly died in the war; had been sent home on his deathbed and pulled himself through to recovery here during the Blitz. He didn’t strike me as the kind to just give up and die. Not even in the face of a diagnosis of cancer.”

“So we have _two_ of your feelings to go on. Just about stitches up the case, that does,” says Jakes, rolling his eyes. “Clearly it was murder; he was an optimist and his wife made eyes at a songbird.”

“She’s still watching us,” says Morse, whose back is to the window. 

“How do you know?”

Morse just looks at him. “I always know when someone’s watching me.”

Jakes looks past him into the house; in the front room he can see a shadowy figure standing by the curtains. _And that about does it for this visit_ , thinks Jakes sourly. He turns the engine over, and they pull out onto the street.


	2. Early Days (part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Upping the rating for Jakes' thoughts and memories.

There’s a student protest against the war in Vietnam in the streets as they return to the nick; they detour around it, running down through Iffly instead of over Magdalen bridge. _A demonstration in Oxford_ , thinks Jakes irritably, _I’m sure that’ll make headlines in the States._

Morse spends the journey staring out the window in silence.

By the time they get back it’s nearly knocking-off time, the sky beginning to darken as the sun lowers itself towards the horizon behind a thick bank of clouds. The motor pool is busy with officers returning from various duties and investigations; Jakes finds a spot and parks the Jag; by the time he’s pulled the keys from the ignition Morse is already gone. _To report to his keeper?_ wonders Jakes, but he doesn’t hurry himself for it. If Morse is nothing but a lackey there are ways and means of dealing with that, and racing the man to get his report in first isn’t one of them.

But when he mounts the stairs to the CID office Morse’s desk is empty, and he can see Thursday sitting alone in his office through the open door, writing at his desk. He has just paused outside, considering whether or not his visits merit a report, when Thursday glances up and catches sight of him. “Sergeant,” he calls, and Jakes enters the office. 

The smell of pipe tobacco has diffused since this morning, leaving behind the faint dusty scent of the radiator. Jakes comes to a stop behind the interview chair, waiting for Thursday to finish what it is he’s writing and put his pen down. 

“Finding your feet alright?” asks Thursday, leaning back in his chair.

“I think so, sir,” answers Jakes, honestly. “Still a fair bit of newness to get a grasp on.”

“That will come with time. Make any headway with your investigations?”

“It’s PC Strange’s day off today, sir. I followed up on the Richards suicide instead. Spoke to the pathologist, and Mrs Richards.”

Thursday nods. “And?”

 _And your bagman thinks it’s murder._ “And I don’t see anything that suggests foul play.”

“Took Morse out with you, I saw,” says Thursday, looking past Jakes; Jakes half-turns to see the songbird reappear in the CID office and return to his desk. “That was perceptive of you.”

“Yes, sir.” Jakes pauses. “He wants to investigate further,” he adds flatly, after a moment. Doubtless Thursday will hear it from him in any case; better to make a clean breast of it.

“Does he? When you’ve been here a while, you’ll come to see Morse’s little ideas in a more favourable light. He can have unusual insights.”

“So you think we should keep the case open, sir?”

Thursday looks at him mildly, impartial as Justice. “That’s up to you, sergeant. What’s your opinion?”

Jakes knows which side his bread is buttered on. “A day or two more can’t hurt,” he says, repressing a sigh.

  
***

He returns to his desk to write up his notes in a more organized fashion. He’s still there half an hour later when Morse rises at the sound of Thursday’s footsteps and reaches his coat down off the stand.

It’s the first time he’s seen the two of them together, and he doesn’t know what he’s expecting. Some show of favour on Thursday’s part, or eagerness on Morse’s. A touch, a word, something to suggest the dark heart of their relationship. But there’s nothing at all; Morse stands and accompanies Thursday out, the two of them walking a respectable distance apart without sharing a glance, as though they were nothing more than inspector and bagman. 

Jakes snorts at the hypocrisy of it, locks up his desk, and goes home.

  
***

Home is the top floor of a tenement house divided originally to house students, but rising prices in Oxford have driven it into a new market: young working couples. Jakes doesn’t have a girl, and so rattles around in the bed, bath and sitting area like a pea in a tin. There are still a few boxes and cases stacked in the corner, and the sharp lingering smell of packing tape.

Dinner is a joyless pork joint dressed with over-boiled vegetables. In his youth he consumed food in a hurried gobbling, cramming as much as possible in his gullet in the least amount of time, lest it be taken from him by a bigger boy. Now, alone and older and with a sufficiency of food, money and status, he forces himself to eat at a leisurely pace; it still jangles uncomfortably. 

Until his first paycheque comes through he’s living hand to mouth, so after dinner he stays in rather than visiting one of the local pubs. Sitting in his sole chair he reviews the map of Oxford and his notes on the station hierarchy; he still has a lot to learn. 

His dreams that night are dark and confused, but he wakes in the middle of the night with the memory of hot hands around his neck, slowly tightening. He lies awake for a long time afterwards, trying to remember how to forget.

  
***

The next morning dawns bright and sunny, blue sky stretched wide overhead. There’s not a cloud in sight, sun beating down so heavily Jakes almost considers not bringing a coat. But there’s a cold bite to the wind, the last of winter’s cruelty hanging in for the long haul, and in the end he shrugs on his camel hair pea jacket before leaving.

He walks to the station this morning, partially to stretch his legs and partially to better acquaint himself with Cowley. It takes about five times as long as the bus would have, but saves him tuppence. 

Cowley is the poor cousin to Oxford, but it’s still a sight better than Kidlington. More urban, more shops and businesses, more cars on the roads. The buildings are taller, looming over the streets and spilling early tulips from window boxes. The wind is siphoned through the streets to howl down some and cut out entirely in others. The road in front of Cowley Station is such a dead zone, and Jakes finishes his walk in with his coat unbuttoned, basking in the sun. 

The light’s off in Thursday’s office when he makes it up the stairs to the CID, and Morse’s desk is empty as well. Satisfied that he’s made good time, he slips out of his coat and gets down to work. With the Richards case continuing, he needs to turn up new evidence, or else dismiss the case and Thursday’s songbird’s suspicions for the ridiculous notion they are. 

The obvious place to start is the existing evidence. It’s being held in the separate incident room on one of the side tables: Richards’ personal effects collected from the body at the mortuary, a smattering of books and papers from his home and office, and the bottle of amobarbital that took his life. A note from the pathologist states that it had been mixed with coffee, which would have masked the bitter taste. There’s no forensics log; clearly this was deemed a suicide from the outset. He frowns and returns to his desk.

The internal switchboard connects him to forensics, and he requests fingerprinting of the amobarbital bottle. Just as he’s hanging up the doors to the CID office swing open and Thursday appears, Morse trailing in his shadow. Thursday gives Jakes a nod as he passes by, entering into his office without a backward glance at Morse.

Jakes learned a long time ago that an appearance of respectability is no guarantee of moral worth. There are great men scattered throughout the county who aren’t fit for dogfood, never mind the offices they hold. But for the owner of a songbird to play at being upright and detached is a new height in hypocrisy. 

“Morning,” says Morse; Jakes gives him a sour look. To have your head turned by a songbird is pathetic, but understandable. But songbirds themselves occupy a special status in society, a creature fit for nothing but pleasure and debauchery. Some view them as pitiable slaves, others as shameless homewreckers. But regardless of moral stance, it’s a universal constant that they live and thrive on sex – that’s what they’re _for_. They are, by nature, a vice. Which brings him right up to the crux: how is one serving as a copper? Morse can’t possibly have a right to his warrant card, or his place as bagman, and Jakes can’t help but wonder who he was loaned to to get them.

  
***

He meets Jim Strange in the canteen; one of the DCs points him out across the room, and Jakes takes his tea and biscuit over to talk to the man. Strange is tall and hefty, perfect build for a PC; when he speaks it’s clear that he’s steady enough for the job as well.

There is nothing much of note about the car thefts; the files tell the whole story: one or two cars reported missing a month, much the same M.O., but with no conclusive evidence there’s no way to prove the pattern, or deduce anything from it. 

“It doesn’t feel as though we’re making much progress,” sums up Strange, with a weary sigh that sits in contrast to his good-natured face. 

“We’ll keep on it for now. Come and fetch me the next time a theft is reported; I want to conduct the interviews myself.”

“Yes, sarge.”

Jakes smiles at this; it feels good to be a sergeant.

  
***

The results from the fingerprinting come through a couple of hours after lunch, just when the sun is shining into the room in full force and his sandwich is sitting heavily in his stomach, lulling him into a stupor.

“Two sets of prints,” the forensics officer reports on the phone; Jakes scribbles down a note, for all that the results will be sent up to him later. “One was Dr Richards’. The other was his wife’s; we took them for comparison. She’s not on record.”

“Right. Thanks.”

It’s confirmation, but of what? Jakes stands and walks slowly in through Thursday’s open door, only to see Morse is already there, standing in front of the desk. Thursday’s leaning back, relaxed, his face easy and open. 

At the sight of Jakes he straightens, a bland mask falling over his face, but he nods welcomingly. “Sergeant?”

“It’s not important, sir,” says Jakes, and starts backing out. Morse has turned to watch him, his weight settled unevenly to one side. His gaze is steady and thoughtful. 

Thursday shakes his head. “That’s alright; this can wait.”

Morse moves to the side and Jakes comes back into the room. “I had forensics dust the bottle of the barbiturate that killed Richards. Two sets of prints came back: his and his wife’s. Could be any number of reasons for that, sir.”

“Certainly. Some of them legitimate,” says Thursday.

“And some not,” replies Morse. “It’s reason enough for another conversation.”

Thursday glances from Morse to Jakes. “How was the drug taken?” 

“In his coffee, according to the pathologist.”

“Easily drugged,” says Morse. “And no one’s asked her to produce an alibi.”

That’s according to the notes. Once again proving that Morse has been snooping through the case files. Jakes gives him a stony glance. Thursday catches it, but says nothing about it. Instead he leans forward, setting his hands on his desk. 

“Alright then; the two of you go ask her.”

Jakes nods. “Yes, sir.”

  
***

“You want to mind your own business,” Jakes tells him in the car, as he drives out to Richards’ house. The interior of the Jag is hot from the sunshine, red seats warm through his woollen trousers.

Morse blinks but turns a half-challenging look on him. “Do I?”

“This isn’t your case.”

“It’s my job to see that Inspector Thursday’s cases run smoothly.”

“No, it’s your job to be his eyes and ears, if that’s the way he wants it. My job is to run the cases.” Jakes takes a turn more savagely than needed; Morse slides a little on the seat and grasps for purchase at the door. “Mind you remember it.”

Morse doesn’t answer; he’s glaring irritably out the window.

  
***

It’s Jakes who knocks on the door again; however this time it’s not answered by Mrs Richards. A stooped, hard-worn woman of sixty opens the door, her face leathery and her eyes tired. She has an apron tied about her waist, and a dirty rag in her hand; clearly the char. “What is it?”

“Police; we’re here to speak with Mrs Richards. It’s about her husband.”

“She’s not here. Gone down to the river.”

“Do you know where?” asks Morse, speaking from behind him. The old woman looks past Jakes and softens; what she sees there he doesn’t want to know. 

She does, however, give them directions.

  
***

Jakes’ family traditions leaned more towards fights at football matches and sneaking beer and fags out of the house to consume illicitly in back alleys. They certainly do not stretch to messing about in boats on the Isis. Which is why his expectations of meeting Mrs Richards “on the river” are vague to the point of insubstantiality. Morse, giving directions from the passenger seat, seems to have no such confusion.

If he’s imagining anything, it’s Mrs Richards in a punt, elegantly manoeuvering her way down the river. In fact though, as they run down the road that follows the river, what they eventually see in the distance is a canoe being steadily paddled by two passengers. One of the two is making a fair hash of it, even Jakes’ inexpert gaze can tell. 

He pulls the car up as close to the river as he can come and they get out. They pass a wicker picnic basket complete with blanket near the pier; clearly Mrs Richards and her partner were making an afternoon of it. There’s an empty bottle of champagne rising from the dark confines of the basket – a little risqué for a grieving widow. 

The canoe is heading back towards them, Mrs Richards in the front and her partner – a young man – in the back. Jakes narrows his eyes but is unable to make out much of his features at this distance. Mrs Richards, on the other hand, clearly makes them out plainly. She backs water abruptly and the canoe spins sideways in the river, the current hitting it broadside. 

It would have been alright even still, had she not half-stood in her panic, rocking the boat. Her partner gives a cry and she sits down abruptly, further unbalancing the craft. It slips to the side and a wave of water floods in, and from there there’s no salvaging the situation. The canoe capsizes, both occupants flailing out into the river

Jakes and Morse are already running along the river bank when Mrs Richards’ partner strikes out for the opposite side. Mrs Richards is struggling alongside the canoe, scrabbling desperately to hold onto its smooth lacquered side, screaming in panic. She goes under once, comes up again, and then goes under again and does not come up.

Beside him Morse is already flinging off his coat and jacket; he pulls his tie off as well as he runs into the water, flinging it back onto the shore. Then he’s diving into the water like a retriever, striking out strongly for where the canoe went down. 

Jakes reluctantly pulls off his coat and jacket, striding down to the water’s edge. DCs aren’t provided for nothing – they’re there to do the legwork, and jumping into a freezing river definitely constitutes legwork. 

Out in the centre of the brownish water Morse’s sleek head emerges, his hair dark and slick as a seal’s. He drags a limp form with him and starts swimming for the shore. The river isn’t that wide; it’s not long before he’s walking instead of swimming. 

He emerges from the river looking like he’s stepping out of some Renaissance painting of a classical scene, the kind that would hanging in a gilt frame in the National Gallery. The water’s rushing over his narrow frame, his translucent shirt plastered to his pale skin showing every curve, every plane of his body. His trousers are skin-tight, emphasizing his narrow hips and the curve of his arse. His near-nakedness is making Jakes heady, driving the blood straight to his prick as he tries to breathe through the captivation and can hardly manage it. 

Morse’s hair has been washed back from his face, leaving his eyes the only colour there, and they are shockingly bright, vivid as the blue sky above. They hold Jakes trapped in their gaze, hypnotised as a mouse before a snake.

In his arms is Mrs Richards’ limp form, and Jakes knows that should mean something, that he should be taking action of some sort, but all he can do is stand and stare. He can see Morse’s chest rising and falling with each panting breath, see the trail of freckles that slips seductively beneath his open collar, see the way the muscles are rippling in his shoulders. 

Jakes wants him. Wants to rip the soaked clothes from his body, wants to push him down into the green grass, wants to fuck him until the sun sets. The desire is all he knows, the beginning and end of him.

He watches hungrily as Morse strides up the bank and kneels to put Mrs Richards down. Morse looks up to him and his eyes are huge and obscenely beautiful in his elegant face; Jakes wants Morse to pleasure him while he stares up at Jakes with those eyes, to never stop looking at him.

“Call an ambulance,” says Morse, and Jakes blinks stupidly at the words. But if an ambulance is what he wants, it’s easily managed; Jakes turns and stumbles up the verge to the car to call for one, only remembering once he’s out of Morse’s sight that it’s for Mrs Richards. It doesn’t occur to him until hours later that it isn’t a DC’s place to be giving orders to his sergeant. 

When he returns Morse has stripped off his soaking shirt and vest and has pulled his jacket over his naked shoulders; his coat he has spread over Mrs Richards. She’s breathing, Jakes sees, but unconscious. 

His eyes rise to Morse, who’s crouched half-naked and perfect, posture precise despite the delicate shivers that are running through him. His lip is caught between his teeth in an erotic show of concern, his expressive eyes downcast. There’s a silvery pendant hanging about his neck, a flattened metal rectangle; it glints when it catches the sun. 

Jakes reaches out to him. He can’t not – he needs to hold Morse, needs to feel the smoothness of his skin, to press their bodies together and share his warmth. It’s not an intellectual choice, it’s instinct. 

Morse looks up and sees the gesture. He takes a sharp step back, raising his own hand. “Stop.” As he stiffens he loses the irresistible attraction he had held a second ago. The spell breaks so abruptly Jakes feels his head spinning, his heart torn in two conflicting directions. He’s left dizzy and weak-kneed, fighting to find himself in the sudden confusion. 

“What the hell was that – _what the hell did you do?_ ” he demands, running his hands over his head. Morse looks worried now – afraid. 

“I forgot myself,” he says, guiltily.

“You _forgot_ yourself?” explodes Jakes, furious and aghast in equal measure. “You bloody well forgot – what? That you’re supposed to be a copper, not a goddamn whore? That your job is more important than being bedded? Is that a hard line for you to walk, Morse, because if it is –”

“Every minute of every day,” shoots back Morse, flaring up. “That’s how often I have to remember to hide what I am. Do you think you could do it? And never once slip up?”

Morse’s skin is too white to show colour, his lips blue with the cold that’s making him shiver. He wraps his arms up under his narrow chest, hands caught in the lapels of his jacket to pull it closer. He looks cold and miserable now, no longer a romantic figure but a pathetic one. 

_Christ_ , thinks Jakes, staring at him. _He’s not turning his allure on and off, he’s consciously repressing it. And when he forgets to…_

“See that you don’t forget it again,” he warns sharply, sees Morse square up to answer back, and gives him a hard glare that slaps him back down. “And what the hell is that, a copper shouldn’t be wearing jewelry,” he adds, reaching out despite himself to pick up the metal pendant hanging around Morse’s neck.

Not a pendant, he realises a moment later as he reads it: a dog tag. A certificate of ownership. 

++ Noli me tangere ++  
Frederick Albert Thursday

“Noli me tangere? What’s that when it’s at home, then?”

“Don’t touch me,” answers Morse; Jakes scowls and releases the tag. 

“Alright then, if you’re choosing now to be particular about it.”

“No. The latin tag. ‘Don’t touch me.’ I have a keeper.”

 _And a fine job he’s done of keeping you_ , thinks Jakes. But before he can get a jibe in there’s the low wail of the ambulance, and they both look up, and then down to the unconscious Mrs Richards.

  
***

In an ideal world, he would have gone with the ambulance and left Morse to his own devices. But the DC is still shivering like a tree in a gale, and no colour has come back to his skin. Happy as Jakes would be to leave him, he can’t risk Thursday’s wrath so early in his Oxford career.

“I’ll take you back to Thursday’s, then go see about Mrs Richards,” says Jakes, as he turns over the engine. Morse appears surprised by his consideration, but shrugs. 

“He’s near the hospital; it won’t be far out of your way.”

Jakes has not yet been to Thursday’s, so Morse gives directions in a soft voice, sitting forward on his seat with the heater on and his hands held up to it. The seat will be damp afterwards, Jakes thinks, glancing down at Morse’s wet trousers. His shirt and vest are draped over his lap, doubtless leaching the heat out of his thighs. 

Thursday, it turns out, lives in a brick terraced house; it’s a long row, each house the same as the next. Once summer comes and the gardens have more opportunity to bloom, there will surely be more there to set them apart, but for now they all have their sameness stamped across them. 

“This is fine,” says Morse, and Jakes slows. He gets out, folding his shirt and vest over his arm, and walks up the path to the house. Instead of producing a key he rings the bell, and Jakes watches in shock as the door is opened by a middle-aged woman who takes one look at him and pulls him inside, face awash with caring dismay. 

A wife. Thursday has a wife. And he brings his songbird home to her. 

Jakes has been trying to reserve his judgement of the man, but he feels that reservation breaking at this new revelation. What kind of a man could keep a wife and a songbird under the same roof?

  
***

By the time he gets to the hospital, Mrs Richards has been admitted. He checks on her in her bed – warming up under an electric blanket and regaining her colour well, according to the nurse, but still unconscious.

Satisfied he hasn’t missed capturing her initial reactions, he steps out to phone Thursday.

It takes 3 rings for Thursday to answer; his voice sounds sharper over the phone. “Thursday.”

“Jakes, sir. I’m at the hospital. We found Mrs Richards canoeing on the river and she went overboard, tipped the canoe when she saw us; Morse had to go in after her. She was unconscious when he pulled her out – still is.”

There’s a long pause as Thursday digests this information. Then: “I see. You’d better stay there and see if she comes to.”

“Yes, sir. She wasn’t alone, sir. There was a young bloke with her. He scarpered when the canoe overturned.”

“Description?”

“Five ten, dark hair, tweed jacket. I didn’t get a good look at him. Hopefully she’ll be able to tell us more when she wakes up.”

“Alright.”

Jakes smooths a hand down over his hair, then brings his hand down to straighten his tie. “There was one other thing, sir. About Morse. He went in the drink, like I said. I took him to your house afterwards to get warmed up. Your wife…” He can’t think of any way to end that sentence, just trails off into silence.

“My house?” Thursday sounds a little surprised, but continues on in an accepting tone. “Well Win’ll see to him. That’s fine, sergeant.”

“Yes, sir.”

He hangs up, feeling very lost.


	3. Early Days (part 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for description of physical abuse.

Jakes served his mandatory two years in uniform in the time-honoured fashion of standing out of doors in all weathers, being spat and kicked at by surly drunks in between long stretches of doing nothing. After that drudgery, sitting in a comfortable chair in a warm hospital ward is no hardship. But nevertheless by the half-hour mark he finds himself growing restless, feet beginning to tap on the linoleum floor. He sits it out for another ten minutes, then stands. He stretches his spine then carefully re-tucks his shirt, but knows it will take more to exhaust the restlessness. 

With a backwards glance at Mrs Richards – still sleeping – he pads down the corridor and to the stairs. The mortuary is only two flights down.

In the basement he pushes through the swinging oak doors to discover the pathologist elbow-deep in a corpse. The doctor looks up with an irked expression; there’s a slithering sound as something long and slick slips through his fingers. “Yes?” he says, testily. He’s got a heavy rubber apron on over his clothes; the front is slick with blood. 

Jakes steps into the white-tiled room with deliberate casualness. Autopsies hold no horrors for him; six months spent cleaning up after road accidents relieved him of most of his squeamishness. His hard-nosed DI, who insisted firmly on attentive participation at autopsies,  
rid him of the rest.

“About Dr Richards,” begins Jakes; the doctor fixes him with an unimpressed stare, hands still deep in viscera. He does relax slightly though to listen to the question. “You said the barbiturate was given to him in his coffee. Is that right?”

“He took it in his coffee,” corrects DeBryn, pedantically, looking at Jakes myopically through his thick glasses. “Whether or not it was given him is another matter.”

“How do you know? About the coffee.”

“Contents of his stomach. And Uniform had me take away the cup to be analysed. The two analyses matched.”

“Was it fingerprinted? The cup?”

DeBryn blinks. “Not while in my possession. It ought to have gone back to the station by now, but I know the forces of law and order have been a bit behind lately. You might pop your head in the lab; ask for Dr Allen. First door on your right,” he adds, nodding towards the exit to the mortuary.

“Right. Thanks.”

Jakes leaves him to his entrails and stops in the first door on the right as directed. It’s a large space filled with rows of black resin-topped tables holding glass tubes and bottles, microscopes and unfamiliar machinery. There’s a young man in a white coat doing something with a pipette and a flat round tray; Jakes steps over. “Dr Allen?”

The young man looks up and shakes his head. “The office through there,” he says, gesturing to the end of the room and the door there that Jakes now notices. He goes as directed, knocking on the door and stepping into a small office filled with books, journals and papers. In the sole chair an older woman is sitting, greying hair tied smartly up. “I’m looking for Dr Allen,” says Jakes, restraining from glancing around – there’s not room in the office to hide a second person.

“You’ve found her,” says the woman, and Jakes feels a wave of scorn at the idea of a female pathologist. It must show in his face; she gives him a stony look and stiffens. “What can I do for you, Mr…?”

“Sergeant. Jakes. I’m looking for the cup Dr Richards’ coffee was in.”

“That, I can help you with. Just a moment.” She stands, turns briskly, and bends to unlock a wooden sideboard, apparently used more as a shelf than anything; the top is beginning to bend from the weight of what look like scientific textbooks. Inside he can see some more books, a few stacks of papers, and a cardboard box. The box she removes and hands to him. “There you are; just as it came.”

“Did you wear gloves when handling it?” he asks, dreading the answer.

“Of course,” she replies promptly; he raises his eyebrows in surprise. “We’re not completely inept here, sergeant. If that’s all?”

“For now,” he says, to have the last word. But she’s already turning back to her papers.

  
***

When he gets back to the ward, box in hand, one of the ward sisters motions him over. Mrs Richards is lying with her eyes open, staring in puzzlement at the ceiling.

“Mrs Richards?”

She turns to look at him, and he sees the moment when recognition hits: fear suddenly stamps itself across her face, like a cloud passing over the moon.

It takes two things to make sergeant: hard work, and initiative. Jakes leans forward now, and grasps hold of the latter. “We know,” he says, looking her straight in the eye and bluffing with his best poker face. “We know about your new fancy man, we know about the amobarbital, we know about the coffee cup. Fingerprints don’t lie.” He opens the box on his lap and angles it so that she can see the cup inside. She blanches, the colour disappearing from her face, and for a moment he thinks she’s going to faint. But then she swallows, and her eyes fill with tears.

“Why?” he asks. “He was on the way out anyhow – why give him a push?”

“You don’t understand,” she says, turning away.

“No – and a court won’t either.”

She snaps her head around to stare at him, suddenly furious. “No. You don’t understand what it’s like to be chained to a man twice your age, to watch your youth draining away because of one stupid mistake. Paul was a Catholic; he would never have granted me a divorce.”

Jakes frowns. “He was _dying_.”

“My uncle was diagnosed with cancer – inoperable, they said, likely to die in three months. That was four years ago. Stephen had just come along; he won’t wait. I couldn’t give up another chance at happiness. I _couldn’t_.” She sniffs. “It was a mercy; he’d only have wasted away, died wracked with pain and suffering,” she adds, eyes slanted to the side.

“You’re under arrest,” he tells her, closing the lid on the cardboard box. He gives her the caution, then catches the eye of the nearest nurse. “I need to speak to her doctor,” he says. She’ll need to be kept under watch until she can be discharged.

  
***

He calls the nick and has a PC sent out to stay with Mrs Richards until she can be taken in. Once PC Nixon is installed he leaves, heading back to the station.

The CID office is painted in hues of blue and grey when he gets back, the end of the day closing out in darkening colours. The thick frosted glass fixtures on the overhead lights dim the bright bulbs to a softer, yellower light, casting diffuse shadows across the now-burgundy floor. 

He spends some time filling out the arrest paperwork, pecking away at the typewriter far slower than the flow of his thoughts. When he’s done he considers taking the forms in to Thursday to sign off on, but finds he doesn’t want to see the man. Not with the memory of his songbird still so vivid in his mind. So instead he leaves them on his desk and gets up to stretch his legs, meandering over to the card catalogues that hold the cross-referenced information on local persons of interest. The three cabinets take up a corner on the other side of the office beside Eastman and Holbrooks’ desks; Jakes gives them a nod as he goes by. 

“Heard you made your first collar,” says Eastman, swivelling in his chair. “Congratulations.”

Jakes pauses, hand half-reaching towards the cabinet. “Thanks mate. She cracked like an egg once she knew the game was up.”

“Some of us are going round the pub tonight; come by and celebrate. Duck and Drake, six o’clock.” Eastman glances at Holbrooks, who nods. 

“I’ll be there.” Jakes gives a brief grin. 

Eastman turns back to his desk, and Jakes looks to the cabinets. They’ve divided the alphabet into equal thirds. He runs his hand down past L to M. MA, MC, ME, MI, MO. His hand stops, and he pulls out the drawer. Flicks through the cards until he finds MOR. There’s one Morse – Wallace, a 62 year-old with convictions for theft and assault. Definitely not DC Morse, probably not a relative. As far as he knows songbirds live in small, close-knit families, under the oversight of their keeper or keepers. The idea that one could be related to a small-time thug is farfetched. 

He returns to his desk, no better informed. There’s one other, surer place to try, but he can’t do it from the office.

  
***

Thursday leaves early; Jakes watches him go without reacting; only once he’s gone does he step in to put the arrest papers on his desk – they can wait until tomorrow.

He waits until 5:30 to leave; he takes his notebook with him.

From the phone booth across the street he calls Somerset House, using his identification number to access privileged information. The songbird registry. The fabulous sums they go for makes keeping a registry to protect ownership vital – even if it is in some ways eerily similar to a record of provenance. 

“There’s only one Morse on record currently living,” answers the voice after several minutes. “Endeavour Morse, born September 23, 1938.”

“That’s him,” answers Jakes; in the confines of his head the word _Endeavour?_ ricochets about like a squash ball. “I need the list of his keepers.”

“There are three consecutive keepers recorded: Cyril Morse; Guy Fleming; Frederick Thursday.”

“Cyril Morse – who’s that, his father?” Being _kept_ by his father – Jakes tastes bile in the back of his throat. Christ, the filth that surrounds these creatures, the depths of depravity they plumb…

The clerk, however, sounds equally shocked by the suggestion. “No, no. It’s common for songbirds to take the name of their first keeper. Ownership passed in September 1956; that would have been his 18th year – his majority. Likely he was sold on as soon as he was fit to take up his duties.”

 _As soon as he was old enough to be kept for pleasure_ , translates Jakes, with a sneering scowl. “When did he pass into Thursday’s ownership?”

“June 1962.”

“Alright, that’s all. Thanks.” He hangs up and makes a few notes in his book. Then he steps out into the falling chill of the early March evening, and makes for the pub.

  
***

The Duck and Drake is a real copper’s pub. Cheap drinks, lots of crooked chairs, a menu featuring a limited variety of plentiful fatty food, and a striking lack of other patrons. Since half the station is inside, there’s no sign of disappointment from the establishment.

It’s the kind of place where in the not-too-distant-past sawdust would have been put down, and the menu written up on the wall. There’s no sign of brass or polished wood, just dull, scarred pine half-heartedly varnished. 

Jakes locates the CID contingent in a small room in the back; there are only a couple of Uniforms among them, one of them PC Strange. The rest are his officemates; several nod at him as he joins them. 

“Wotcher.” He takes a seat beside Dutton, one of the DCs from the far side of the room. Strange, recognizing an opportunity, rises to fetch a round; Jakes raises a finger to request a pint. 

“How’re you finding it?” asks Eastman, from across the table. He’s an older sergeant, and from just two meetings with him Jakes is sure that he will retire at the same rank. He knows the type; steady, solid, and with a complete lack of imagination. For grinding case work, there’s probably no one who beats him. 

“Alright so far. Inspector Thursday seems the type to know his own mind.”

“Aye, he is at that. He gets the job done, but he’ll go about it his own way. He’s genial enough most of the time, but if he gets in one of his moods, you’d best look out. ”

Jakes thinks back to the warning he received from Thursday on his first day, wonders whether that was a forecast of things to come. 

“He sent his last sergeant packing. Caught him with his hand out a few too many times,” says Dutton, a sharp-dresser with slicked back hair and a thin, hungry face. He’s a DC, and dissatisfied with it, Jakes can tell. “Course that was when Teddy Samuels was running his dog and pony show.”

“Samuels?” asks Jakes, looking around. Several men glance away, and he knows that whoever Thursday’s past sergeant was, he wasn’t the only one receiving bribes. 

“Ran a used car lot, as well as half the brass in the county. Finger in a lot of pies; too many, maybe. Some bird who’d known him,” Dutton’s wagging eyebrows indicate a carnal knowledge, “stopped by and did for him with a wrench. He’s a vegetable now; buried away in some home out in the country.”

Jakes whistles. “And here I thought it was all college fraud and student misdemeanours on your patch,” he says, with a shit-eating grin. The others smile back. It’s a well-known stereotype. 

Strange arrives with the drinks; he hands out the glasses and Jakes takes his, drinking long and thirstily. As expected it’s not good-quality stuff, but it’s cheap and plentiful and that’ll do for now. Coppers converge on the copper’s pub to forget what they’ve seen while they were out coppering, not to appreciate fine ale. 

“Notice you came back without Thursday’s songbird,” says Holbrooks, with a questioning glance. “Making his own way home, is he?”

“He fell in the river; I left him at Inspector Thursday’s,” replies Jakes, shortly. It’s early in his career here to be venturing into gossip, especially before he knows how deep the waters are. And, more importantly, who’s a grubby little tattler. 

“Why not at his flat?” asks Strange curiously. 

Jakes stares. “He has a flat?”

Strange shrugs. “A little bedsit, over by the golf course.”

“Been there, have you?” asks Dutton in a meaningful tone. Strange colours to a bright tomato-red. 

“Dropped him once, is all,” says the PC, hand tightening around his glass. 

“And him a kept thing, and all. Wonder you had the nerve.” replies Dutton, with a nasty grin. 

“I never went inside,” replies Strange. Jakes believes him; he’s also sure everyone else does. Strange has a big, blotchy face that couldn’t be party to a lie to save his life. But Dutton doesn’t let it slide. 

“Explains why he’s so keen on you, doesn’t it? He’s glacial to the rest of us,” he adds to Jakes, in an aside. “He’s not getting enough at home; needs to get a bit on the side I imagine.”

“He’s Thursday’s bagman,” breaks in Eastman, repressively. Dutton gives him a look, but shuts up in the face of rank. 

Jakes badly wants to ask how it is that Thursday can afford to keep Morse in his own flat – or own him at all. But there are clearly tensions over the songbird in the office, and he can’t afford to set them off. 

So he offers to buy the next round, and stands up to fetch it.

  
***

Tomorrow is another workday so they end up staggering out at a decent hour, Jakes with several drinks more than he had intended under his belt. He takes it slow, navigating his way out of the cramped fug of the pub onto the dark streets. The cold air against his hot skin is refreshing, as good as a splash of water to the face.

He finds himself pacing along with Strange, the two of them close to steady but not quite there. It doesn’t help that the pavement rises and falls unevenly under their feet, the result of shoddy workmanship some decades ago. They stumble off the kerb into the street to make their way across, then back up again on the other side.

“If he’d come out once and a while they wouldn’t be so cruel,” says Strange out of nowhere, and somehow Jakes knows he’s talking about Morse. “Got to rub along in this job, I told him. But no. He won’t.” 

“Never?”

Strange thinks about it. “Came once,” he admits, finally. “Lott egged Dutton into making a pass. Morse left in a huff – as if half the station hasn’t made one, sometime or the other.” He snorts. 

As if Jakes hadn’t made one earlier today. It sends a chill down his spine, thinking about it. Thinking how close he had come to throwing Morse down onto the grass and taking what he wanted. His stomach lurches dangerously, and he tries to turn his thoughts away from the dark road of his memory.

“He can put backs up like no one’s business, can Morse, for all that he can turn heads a mile off. One of these days, it’ll get him into trouble.” 

“His mouth or his looks?” asks Jakes, darkly, thinking of Morse’s stroppy mouth and bright blue eyes. He has a unique ability to beg for trouble. Beg irresistibly. 

“Dunno. Thursday’s always been there to smooth things over.”

“His _keeper_ ,” spits Jakes. 

“Well,” says Strange, slowly, teasing out the word like a piece of gum. “Morse says it’s nothing but a per – profesh – professional relationship.”

“What profession?” asks Jakes, mouth running ahead of him. “Whore? Lapdog? There to scratch Thursday’s itches?”

“I think he just wants to be a copper.”

“Well he can’t,” snaps Jakes, pettily. “He’s already got a profession – getting on his knees to rich old gits.” Rich old gits, and Thursday. Something about that continues to nag. It isn’t just Thursday’s ineligibility as a keeper; it’s something deeper. But he’s too pissed to work it out. “It’s what he is. Why pretend otherwise?”

Strange shrugs. “Maybe he’s happier this way.”

  
***

He’s running. It’s dark, and all about him there’s the smell of coal fires and leaf mould. The air is cold against his face, against his hands and his bare feet. The ground is dirt and thick, treacherous roots that rise to try to trip him.

They’re after him. 

He runs through the woods, knowing they’re following, knowing they’re _so close_ but he can’t let them catch him. Can’t, can’t, can’t. 

The ground becomes wood under his feet, a long straight stretch of hardwood, the walls surrounding him covered with shadowy pictures. The pounding of his feet echoes through the building as he tears around corners and up a flight of stairs. Runs along the corridor and down the back stairs and out into …

The gymnasium. There’s a smell of sweat and floor polish and something sharper, darker. Urine. 

He’s tied to the vaulting horse. He can’t get free, can’t pull his arms away from the firm leather. They’re here now, right behind him, shouting at him, hot hands on his neck and back.

He hears the whistle of air parting as the wire coat hanger is whipped up, then it’s coming down, and –

Jakes snaps awake with a cry, cold and damp with sweat. He’s shivering, and there are tears running down his cheeks. He doesn’t remember crying. 

He gets up out of the bed; he knows of old that he can’t stay where he is, he needs to move, needs to walk. Needs to convince himself that he’s no longer trapped, without choice or options. 

He walks about in circles through his flat as his heartbeat slows, pulls a blanket off his bed to wrap over his shaking shoulders. 

It’s been months since the last dream. Since someone mentioned ACC Deare in Kidlington, and he spilled his coffee in his lap, and then went to bed that night only to wake up screaming hours later. 

He wonders if he’ll ever be free of it. Of the memories, the fear, the dreams. On nights like tonight, he thinks he won’t.


	4. Interlude I

Morse can feel the water squelching in his shoes as he walks up the path to the Thursday house. He knows he must be leaving behind damp footprints on the grey stone, a winding trail of his progress from kerb to doorstep. 

His jacket nearly slips off his shoulder as he raises his hand to knock; he shrugs back down into the flimsy warmth it offers, sheltering under it from the icy wind. The forsythia beside the door is blowing back and forth, yellow blossoms dancing cheerily, but the sight of it does nothing to warm him.

Win answers the door some seconds after he knocks; she takes one look at him and reaches out to pull him inside with a surprised exclamation. “Oh love, look at you. Come in out of the cold.” The door shuts behind him and he stands, dripping, in the front hall. Win surveys him with dismay, looking up and down his sopping form. “You look as though you’ve been swimming across the Channel,” she says, reaching out to take his wet shirt and vest from him.

“Just the Isis,” he replies, smiling softly. 

“You’d best get yourself straight upstairs and draw a bath. Put your clothes in the basket and leave them out for me. And mind you turn it up good and hot; we don’t want you coming down with a cold. You can use the towel on the rack; it’s clean.” 

Morse nods obligingly and toes off his shoes, padding up the carpeted stairs in his wet socks. He can hear Win bustling downstairs, her heels clicking on the kitchen floor. 

The upstairs bathroom is small for a room shared by four people. Its limited counter space is taken up with combs and brushes, a glass for toothbrushes, and a mess of bottles, jars, compacts and sticks of lipstick. Judging by the nature of the products, Joan and Win are clearly winning the land war; the only concession to a male presence is the razor shoved away into the corner. 

In the corner beside the bath stands a wicker basket for dirty clothes; Morse strips his off and piles them into the basket before carrying it to the door and placing it outside in the hallway. Tile cold underfoot he returns to the bath and turns the taps, heavily favouring the hot tap. 

The flow of water is slow, and at the beginning quite cold; it takes some time for the bath to fill up. He gets in as soon as the water is warm, scooping up handfuls to pour over his frigid legs and torso. It grows hotter and hotter until his skin begins to pinken; he lies back and draws the hot water towards himself with his hands, creating a system of currents in the small tub. 

Over the past few years, bathing has become a luxury. His bedsit shares a bathroom between four rooms, and the shower is only on offer for certain hours of the day. He more often washes at his sink with just a sponge and towel. To be able to immerse himself is something he’s missed. 

The water rises to cover his legs and hips and he lets it keep filling until it’s crept up to the nickel tag lying over his sternum, submerging him in its warmth. Only then does he turn off the taps and lie back, enjoying it. He slips down and ducks his head under the water, drawing his fingers through his hair to rinse away any remnants of the river. Wonderfully warm all over, he surfaces again to rest his head against the rim, basking in the comfort. Eventually his eyes drift closed.

  
***

Morse is startled from his quiet contemplation by a knock on the door. The water is only lukewarm now, and his skin has lost its reddened hue; it hasn’t wrinkled, and it never will. Songbirds are expected to luxuriate in bathing, often with scented soaps and fragrant foam as accompaniment. There was a time when that lifestyle was his, when his role was to lounge languorously in a club-footed bath like a nymph, waiting flushed and warm-skinned for his keeper.

Now most days he washes himself with a cracked yellowing bar of hard soap in lukewarm water, looking at his reflection in a tarnished mirror. 

“Morse?” calls Sam, from the other side of the door. Morse sits up, sending a small wave rolling across the bath. “Mum says she’s got your underthings in the wash, and she’s hung the rest up to dry. I’ve left some things out here for you.”

“Thanks.” He wonders with a dull dread if they’re Sam’s things: the lad is long and leggy as a giraffe, but whippet-thin – it will be another year or two before he comes into his full weight. Morse doubts he could squeeze into his trousers; his shirts would be a tight fit. 

He’s put on weight since coming to Oxford, he knows. Softened out his achingly sharp angles to gentler edges, filled out his scarecrow-thin form. _You look half-starved_ , Guy told him in the early days; he hadn’t been far wrong. Morse is glad at least that he sees none of the same in Sam’s youthful thinness. 

He hears Sam’s footsteps thumping down the stairs and pulls himself up out of the water. The towel on the rack is thick and navy blue; he wraps himself in the terrycloth folds and steps out onto the mat, drying himself briskly. 

Sitting on the floor in the hall is a bathrobe and a pair of loose flannel pyjama bottoms, clearly the best Sam could rustle up. The bathrobe is Thursday’s; he can tell by the smell of pipe tobacco and aftershave that lingers on it; he runs his fingers over the soft, striped surface before pulling it on and stepping into the trousers. They’re Sam’s – so long in the leg he has to roll the bottoms up, but the drawstring allows him to sit them comfortably on his wider waist. 

His hair is now merely damp as opposed to sopping; he towels it vaguely but achieves no firm victory. The mirror is still fogged in the centre, but most of the steam has faded and he can see himself standing with one hip cocked, looking bedraggled beneath his mop of water-darkened hair. 

He judges himself clean and turns away, satisfied: it’s no longer his job to look perfect. Not that he needs a mirror for that. He hangs the towel over the shower-curtain rail and pulls the plug in the bath to release the cooling water. Then he opens the door and pads downstairs.

  
***

Sam is sitting at the dinner table with papers and a textbook spread out before him, taking assiduous notes. Morse smiles and leaves him to it; he knows the family routine well enough to know if Sam finishes his work before dinner he’ll be left with no obligations after it.

Win’s in the kitchen stirring something that smells of onions and a rich meaty flavour. Morse isn’t good at identifying food by its smell – or indeed sometimes by sight – but even he can tell it’s going to be some sort of meat stew. Beef, probably, he thinks vaguely. 

Win sees him moving down the hallway and turns to greet him. “You’ve got your colour back,” she observes, brightening. Glancing past her he can see his suit hanging in the kitchen window, soaking in the last of the day’s light. It means, he supposes, that he’ll be smelling of beef stew for a few days. “Chill all gone?”

He stands on the kitchen threshold, the boundary between carpet and linoleum sharp beneath his bare feet. “Yes, thanks. I’m feeling much better.”

“Why don’t you go sit yourself down in the den, and I’ll bring you through something to drink. I think we’ve still some of that ale you like – or there’s brandy.”

“Ale, if there is any, please,” replies Morse, used by now to Win’s need to mother. He moves into the den as instructed and sits himself down on the sofa, sinking into the old cushions. There’s a hand-knit blanket and he pulls it over his knees; the house is cold and draughty even now that winter’s nearly over. He wishes the carpet were deeper so he could bury his feet in it. 

Win comes through with a full glass of amber liquid, and a towel-wrapped shape. “And I made you a hot water bottle, just to keep the chill off.” She hands them both to him; he takes the glass in one hand and the hot water bottle in the other, settling it against his stomach and feeling the heat leeching outwards to warm his belly. “Shall I come and sit with you?” she asks, giving him an inquisitive look.

“Only if it’s no trouble.”

“You’re never any trouble, love. I’ll just fetch my knitting.” She disappears out of the room and he takes a sip of the beer; it’s cold from the fridge, with a rich texture and lasting aftertaste. He drinks half of it in deep, thirsty gulps before she comes back. Knowing her preference for the end seat he shuffles over. 

Win sits with her knitting in her lap; it looks like the arm of a sweater, in hues of forest green and earthy brown. He waits for her to settle herself then turns to rest his back against her side, pulling his blanket-swaddled legs up onto the sofa and tucking his toes under the blanket’s trailing edge. 

“What happened to you, then, swimming across the Isis?” she asks, knitting needles beginning to clack away.

This close he can make out the smell of her under the mixture of shampoos and lotions she uses, the delicate scent of her skin. She’s warm against his back, the hardness of her shoulder against his spine offset by the smooth line of her side and the roundness of her hip. He can feel her soft compassion, warm as her body but less tangible; it’s not the intense heat of sexual arousal, but the gentler, lighter warmth of kindness and caring. 

As he sits he can feel it filling him, saturating him with its strength. He’s not fed for days, and he’s hungry for it now – puts down his glass of beer on the floor to better appreciate the energy Win provides. 

“Sergeant Jakes and I were there to interview a suspect. She overturned her canoe; I went in after her,” he says, shifting to maximise the press of their bodies. Like a cat stretching to fill a ray of sunlight, he fits himself perfectly against her. 

“Sergeant Jakes – is he Fred’s new boy?”

Morse nods, his head rolling against her shoulder. He feels ensconced in warmth; it’s soporific, his muscles already relaxed from the bath further slacking now, the mixture of physical and psychic heat lulling him towards rest. 

“Getting on well, are you?” 

“Not thus far. I forgot myself on the riverbank,” he admits, tensing slightly. “It was just so cold, and I didn’t know if she was breathing, and…” he sighs.

“Oh dear. Is he smitten now?” Her needles continue to click away; the sound is comforting, soothing in its quiet regularity. Morse pulls the blanket to lie more squarely over his legs, fingers tangling themselves in the loosely knitted loops of wool. On his stomach, the hot water bottle radiates heat. 

“I would say that’s certainly a no. He’s made it quite clear he doesn’t approve of me.”

“Well whatever he thinks, he’ll have to mind his Ps and Qs around Fred.”

Morse makes a vague sound of agreement. The truth of it is a DS has plenty of opportunities to make a DC’s life miserable, even a DC who happens to be the Governor’s bagman. 

“Worried are you, love?”

“No. I can manage it.” He’s managed worse, after all. Some of it in Cowley Station. 

“That’s the spirit.” He can hear the smile in Win’s voice, the swelling of fondness in the stream of energy passing from her to him; invisible and intangible to humans it may be, but it’s life and death to him. “I’m sure Fred will be home soon; I could mention to him –”

“I can take care of it,” cuts in Morse firmly, and after a moment Win makes a soft sound of assent. 

“Just as you say dear.”

He closes his eyes and snuggles down into the warmth that’s all around him, lets the sound of her knitting lull him into a dreamless sleep.

  
***

He’s half-woken by a shift in the warm figure against his back, but a new one settles in quickly, this one larger and warmer still. He can feel the compassion, the soft tenderness in the press of their bodies. He twists himself up against this new form, draping himself backwards to deepen their connection.

“Alright lad, it’s just me,” intones a low, husky voice. He closes his fluttering eyelids, sets his head back against the soft shoulder, and drops back into sleep.

  
***

“Morse? Morse.” He’s awoken by a shift from his pillow; his eyes slide open and he stares up in momentary confusion at the unfamiliar ceiling above. It’s not his; the plaster in his flat is water-stained and cracked. “Time you were up and about; you’ll not sleep tonight, elsewise.”

He cranes his head to see Thursday sitting behind him, a book on his lap. “How long was I sleeping?”

“A couple of hours. Job too rough for you?” he asks, jokingly. Morse gives him an unimpressed look.

“You can blame Win’s insistence that I not catch a chill,” he replies with mock-severity, pulling out the now-lukewarm hot water bottle from under the blanket, and turning to put his feet down on the floor. 

“No fault of yours then. Very neat,” says Thursday, wryly complimentary. 

Morse glances past him at the end table and notices his glass of beer sitting there, still half-full. Thursday catches his look and turns to see for himself. “Want that, do you? You’ll have to come in for dinner. Your clothes are mostly dry, you can change into them first.”

“You know I don’t eat.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t make conversation.”

  
***

Family dinners are something Morse never had before the Thursdays. Songbirds feed off affection, not meat and vegetables; there was no need for him to be in the same room as Gwen for longer than necessary growing up, and Guy hadn’t had expectations of him.

Thursday, on the other hand, does. Come by in the evenings, stay for dinner. It’s just the way of things. He’s grown used to sitting between Sam and Win, sipping away at his ale while the others sup and discuss shoes and ships and sealing wax – or, more often, Sam’s school friends’ escapades and Joan’s reportedly septic love life. Tonight it’s the latter, going at full bore as usual.

“…and if you hadn’t chased off Billy Carmichael, I’d have actually had someone to go out with Saturday night, rather than being stuck alone in my room like Rapunzel.”

Thursday gives her an unfazed look. “Billy Carmichael: He’s no better than he ought to be,” he says, without expanding. Morse keeps his mouth firmly glued shut despite knowing that William Carmichael was collared for passing stolen goods two months back.

“Surely there must be _someone_ good enough,” retorts Joan with a glint in her eye.

“Prince Charles is free,” suggests Sam; Joan glares at him. “Or there’s Morse.”

Joan turns to look at Morse, who smiles over the top of his glass. “Married to my work, I’m afraid,” he demurs. 

She gives him a brief, bright smile in return. “Besides, I prefer to know my boyfriends’ first names,” she says, taking the opportunity to air a perpetual grievance. 

Morse just smiles softly, and finishes his drink.

  
***

Thursday sees him to the door afterwards, giving him an inquisitive look. “You’re sure you’re dry?”

“Dry enough to make it home,” says Morse; in fact his trousers are still slightly cool with lingering damp, but it’s bearable. 

“You’d best come by early tomorrow morning; Jakes made his collar and there’ll be paperwork to do.”

Morse’s eyebrows shoot up. “He arrested Mrs Richards?”

“She confessed.”

Morse sighs. “And I missed it while lying in a bathtub. Jakes’ll love that.”

“ _Sergeant_ Jakes,” corrects Thursday. “And you pushed for it, lad; that’s what set things in motion. He knows that as well as I. Besides, where would we be if you hadn’t fished her out of the river?”

“Facing a disciplinary review,” says Morse, with dark humour. Thursday gives him an unamused look.

“Right bit of sunshine you are.”

“Well, I am the one in damp trousers. Sir.” 

Thursday’s eyes run down his crooked form – unlike Jakes’ gaze, Morse sees no desire there, only assessment. “Best get yourself home then. See you tomorrow; bright and early.”

“Yes, sir.” Morse gives him an easy nod and turns to make his way down the path to the road. Behind him, he hears the door close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morse quotes Lewis Carroll's "The Walrus and the Carpenter"


	5. Bright Work (Part 1)

Rumours begin to blossom alongside the spring chestnut trees, filling the nick – or at least, the CID office – with whispers and furtive looks. A new DCS is in the offing. 

Some speculate that Thursday may be elevated to that lofty office; the rewards of long service and an even keel. But Oxford is a touchy city – the university, the blue-blooded town and the surrounding industrial neighbourhoods mean a diplomat is needed for the position, and however even-tempered Thursday is most days none of his juniors would report him as being cut from that cloth. 

Jakes hasn’t been around long enough to speculate, but there’s enough of that going on without him to easily sustain itself. Scandalous rumours of a cousin of the Chief Constable, gossip about a DI from Witney, and blander stories about a pencil-pusher from the Met are all in circulation. 

It’s become the main topic of conversation at the canteen, in the hall, and down the pub. The only two people disdaining it are Thursday, officially neutral in his role as acting DCS, and Morse, officially a kiss-arse. 

But while Thursday may be mute, he’s not deaf. A week after the rumours start circulating he comes out of his office and looks around; something in his posture makes Jakes stiffen at his desk and put down the pen he’d been holding. Beside him Morse gets to his feet in a smooth motion, like a dog who sees his owner stand. 

“Alright, gather round,” barks Thursday, and stands stiff as an Army sergeant waiting for the rest of the room to comply. Jakes rises, resting his hip against his desk; Morse comes around to stand in Thursday’s field of vision. The rest of CID troops over, most of the men loitering around the glass wall that separates the two halves of the office. 

Thursday waits for the assembled group to settle themselves, then begins. “You all know I’ve been filling in as acting Detective Chief Super since February. I’ve heard from Division that our new DCS has been assigned; he’ll be starting here on Monday.” At this a low murmur goes through the crowd; Thursday waits for it to die down. “I expect a summary of all open cases on my desk by Friday morning; we’ll want to present a clear picture of all activity for the new Superintendent. Questions?”

“Who will it be, sir?” asks Price; Thursday’s eyes flicker to the man.

“He’ll be introducing himself to you on Monday morning. I don’t have any details to share.”

A few seconds of silence indicate there are no further questions; Thursday nods and they disperse. Jakes slips back down into his seat but keeps his eyes on Thursday and, standing beside him, Morse.

In the weeks since he’s started, Jakes has learned something about the guv’nor and his bagman. Morse and Thursday are propriety itself in the office; never a touch, never a heated gaze, never a word out of place. The glass in Thursday’s windows is thin enough that if Jakes stands beside them – fishing files out of the filing cabinet there, or fetching more paper for his typewriter – he can hear the general just of conversations. Thursday and Morse talk about work, nothing more, nothing less. Thursday stays squarely on his side of the desk, and Morse demurs to him as a DC should to his inspector. At least, he does when he’s not caught up in one of his fool theories. 

Now Morse turns to catch Thursday’s eye, and the inspector tilts his head towards his office in silent direction; Morse follows him. The door swings shut behind them. Jakes stretches, slowly gets to his feet, and meanders over to investigate the filing cabinet. 

Inside the office, Thursday and Morse are speaking in low voices. Morse is standing right up in front of the desk, the tips of his fingers sweeping over the wooden surface. He’s standing straight for once, the long line of his spine drawing Jakes’ eyes downwards; the sergeant looks away, back to the files he’s supposedly sifting through. 

They’re speaking too quietly for him to make out the words, but he can tell that Morse is anxious, and Thursday conciliatory. The songbird is pressing some point, Thursday replying evenly, his tone calm and relaxed. Morse raps the desk sharply with his knuckles, the sound carrying through the door to make Jakes look up: he catches a hint of Morse’s reflection in the window behind Thursday. Wide, insecure eyes and a half-open mouth, caught in a delicate downward turn. 

Sensing an abrupt ending in the works, Jakes moves back to his desk and has just reseated himself when Morse bangs out of the office and strides out of the CID, all tension and terseness. 

_Trouble in Paradise?_ wonders Jakes.

  
***

Monday morning brings thundershowers, and with them a new leader for Cowley CID.

The DCS is the one person who can make or break CID. No plodding constable or impolitic sergeant can come close, not even a flagrantly bent inspector. But the Chief Super can thumb his nose to a completely different class of people – the rich and influential. The cream of society, whose shoulders it’s his job to rub with. And in Oxford, the cream is particularly rich. 

Jakes’ last DCS was a big bulldog of a man, cunning, stubborn and ruthless, but equally capable of putting on the velvet glove for the Chief Constable’s functions. Jakes is expecting something similar; it’s the way of the Force, after all, to carry a big stick.

He can’t imagine he’s the only one shocked by the man who struts out in front of them. 

“My name is Bright, Chief Superintendent Bright,” brays the small man with the reedy voice from in front of Thursday’s office door, addressing the men assembled there. In front of them he looks like a bantam before a pack of roosters, tiny and frail. His uniform is perfectly ironed, the buttons shining, cap perched on the top of his head. Jakes’ previous Super had come to work in wool suits; the men would’ve taken the mickey for the hat alone. 

Behind him Thursday is standing with an expressionless mask plastered on his face, hands folded behind his back, his posture that of a keen listener. It speaks to Jakes of long experience with posturing peacocks. 

Jakes himself has a long history of dealing with bullshit; it’s no skin off his nose to stand watching with an attentive face while his mind draws up caricatures of his new superior; lisping namby-pambies with eyes only for crisp uniforms and perfectly typed reports. 

That thought draws his eyes to Morse, who always completes his own paperwork without spelling mistakes but with a great deal of correction fluid slopped over the pages, his typewritten errors cleaned up by boxy printed capitals. The songbird’s standing at the back of the pack of men with a slight hunch to his shoulders; his shirt is hanging half-untucked and his tie is crooked. He’s watching with silent critical eyes, an untidy package of slackness and censure. Jakes rolls his eyes. 

After the speech the men break up, most heading back to their desks. Bright turns to talk to Thursday and the two of them peel off towards the back hallway leading to the DCS’ office. As they pass through the lingering men, Jakes sees Bright’s eyes catch on Morse’s disheveled form, sees the little frown that passes over his face. 

Jakes smiles.

  
***

Just after elevenses a call comes in – dead body reported in New College. “Could be natural,” suggests the PC on the phone, sounding uncertain; Jakes scowls.

Thursday’s just passing as he hangs up; he puts out his hand to hold up the inspector. “Just had a call out, sir. New College. Dead body turned up. Might be natural causes, might not.”

Thursday raises his eyebrows. “Best get out there, then. Take Morse with you.”

“Yes, sir.”

  
***

Jakes has by now been in Oxford long enough to know that New College is in fact one of the oldest colleges in the university – it’s the kind of irony only stodgy academics enjoy. The college looks its age; its towering battlements are crested with sharp spires, its walls the yellowed sandstone of Oxford’s oldest buildings, its long black leaden gutters ancient.

Jakes directs the car along Holywell street, parking at the end just opposite the turreted stone wall complete with slit for firing arrows – sometimes, Oxford is shocking medieval. 

It’s still bucketing down, and Jakes unfolds an umbrella and proceeds comfortably under its spread; Morse hurries along beside him, rain-speckled and miserable. They enter in under the thick wall of the college to where the porter is sheltering in out of the rain, and get directions from him to their body.

The dead man is a don – Jakes’ second in as many months. “Dangerous job, this,” he says as they step into the deceased’s office to see the corpse collapsed face-down on his desk. 

It’s a large office, and in the more clement months of the year probably a sunny one as well; it faces south over the soggy quad – out the wide windows Jakes can see a flowering cherry tree standing along one wall, looking bedraggled and shivery in the April downpour. 

The inside of the office holds a damp chill; the lead-framed windows are single paned and the glass weepy with age. It’s a spacious room but it feels smaller than its dimensions owing to the crowding of bookshelves and bureaus filled with books, papers and journals. The untidy mess has spread to all available surfaces, including the desk on which the don died; the space below his face is the one clear spot on the desk.

Standing beside the dead man is the home office pathologist; he glances up when they come in, setting his notebook down on a stack of papers on the wide desk. 

“Ah, sergeant. Morse.”

Morse nods, raising a hand to run through his damp hair. He stops somewhere behind Jakes, out of sight. 

“Who’s this?” asks Jakes, indicating the corpse.

“This, gentlemen, is Doctor Regis Appleby, the Sinclair Chair of Astronomy. Or rather, it was. Decease occurred approximately three hours ago, as indicated by lividity and liver temperature. No immediately apparent cause of death; could have been natural.”

Jakes frowns. “That’s what the constable on the phone said. He didn’t sound convinced.”

“Well, there’s nothing to suggest it was natural, if you get my drift. He’s a youngish man, no signs of morbidity. Of course, there may have been an underlying condition. The post-mortem will turn that up.”

“And all this?” asks Jakes, looking around at the mess. “Ransacked? Or just an everyday tip?”

“Could be either,” says Morse from behind him. Jakes glances around to see him flipping through a cloth-bound book, one of several piled on a side table. He cradles the old text carefully in his left hand, delicately thumbing through with his right, brows furrowed in concentration. The light filtering in through the soaked windows catches on his pale skin, showing it to be flawlessly smooth, unmarked by spots or scars.

“And him a man of science,” comments DeBryn, disapprovingly; the sound of his voice snaps Jakes out of his contemplation. 

“Who’s in charge ‘round here?” he asks.

“The Warden,” reply Morse and DeBryn in concert; Jakes scowls. 

“Warden of what?”

“Of the College,” says Morse, shutting his book and setting it down. His blue eyes are sharp and watchful and, Jakes thinks with an itchy kind of irritation, judgemental. 

“Right. Well I’ll speak to this Warden; you find the porter and get Appleby’s home address. Meet me back here when you’re done.”

Morse slinks off to do as he’s told; Jakes gives the corpse a last look. “When will you have the autopsy results?” he asks the pathologist.

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Fine.” He turns and leaves.

  
***

There’s no difficulty in finding the Warden; he simply freezes onto the first lad he finds wearing a gown and gets directions from him.

The Warden’s Lodgings are as extensive as a large house, despite being built into the college buildings. Jakes is shown into the study, a high-ceilinged room with a fiery crimson rug and dark wooden paneled walls covered in gilt-framed portraits of stiff-looking men, some in academic dress. Previous wardens, he assumes. There’s an unmistakable reek of wealth to the place; silver candlesticks stand on carved oak sideboards; a huge stone fireplace stands behind a mahogany desk. 

“Ah, Sergeant…?”

Jakes turns and sees the Warden entering on silent feet through a back door that fits unobtrusively into the paneled wall. He’s a tall, white-haired man in a well-tailored suit; his face is notable for a prominent beak of a nose and sunken, thoughtful eyes. 

“Jakes, sir,” answers Jakes promptly, wondering suddenly if this might be an interview better conducted by a DI. He stands rigid and straight-backed, like a PC before the Chief Constable. 

“This is about Dr Appleby, I understand.”

Jakes nods, still standing stiffly. “Yes, sir.”

“Do you suspect foul play?”

“I’m afraid it’s too early to tell. An autopsy will be performed; we’ll know better then.”

“Of course.” The Warden seats himself behind his desk, weaving his fingers together and resting his hands on the desk’s polished surface. Jakes can see the reflection of the ceiling in the wood. “What can I do for you?”

“Just a few routine questions about Dr Appleby, sir. Did he have any enemies?”

“Appleby was a genial man; he generally got on well with all and sundry. There has traditionally been a rivalry between the Sinclair Chair at Oxford and the Maudlin Chair at Cambridge; he upheld the tradition, but I never believed there was any true heat between the men. I believe he was well thought of by his students, and well-liked by his peers. He tended to be excitable and occasionally bombastic, but there was no harm in that.” 

“Was he married?”

“No. I believe there had been a wife at one point; I have it in my mind she may have died in the war. Decades ago, at the least.”

“And nothing since?”

“Not of which I was aware. But Appleby and I were not very close. You might try Geoff Phipps, his junior. He would be able to fill in more of the details for you.”

“Where can I find Dr Phipps?” asks Jakes, guessing at the man’s title.

“Two doors down from Appleby. Mousy little man; quite new to the College.” The Warden looks at a tall grandfather clock to his left; Jakes takes the hint. 

“Thank you, sir,” replies Jakes and steps out.

  
***

Jakes makes his way back to the wing housing Dr Appleby’s office. When he arrives at the door marked Dr Geoff Phipps he pauses; there are voices inside. One indistinct, quiet one, and one familiar.

Irritation rising like steam off boiling water, Jakes opens the door and steps through.

Sure enough Morse is standing there, speaking with the professor. They both pause to note his entrance; Jakes looks from the unapologetic Morse to the academic.

Dr Phipps is, as the Warden had said, a mousy man. Brown hair, brown eyes, a full face and a slight frame, he’s the sort of man who’s passed unnoticed in the street by men and women alike. His office, unlike his senior’s, is spick and span, the surface of his desk bright and clean, his bookshelves carefully ordered. 

“This is my colleague,” introduces Morse, “DS Jakes.”

“Pleasure,” replies Phipps with an anemic twitch of his lips. “I was just saying that this business is horrible – horrible.”

“Business?” pounces Jakes. “D’you suspect something?”

Phipps blinks at him. “No – I mean – I just meant his death, is all. I’ve never been involved with someone who died before. Not suddenly – not like this. I just came in and there he was… dead!” The man wipes a hand across his forehead; his hand is shaky and he’s breathing hard, thin shoulders rising and falling visibly beneath his robes. 

“What was Dr Appleby working on at the moment?” asks Morse, voice calm. Phipps looks over to him. 

“Um – astronomical research; charting the precise location of objects – planets, comets and the like. We both were; it’s our bread and butter.”

“So nothing to do with Greats, then?” asks Morse; Jakes shoots him a repressive look, which Morse ignores. 

“I beg your pardon?” Phipps frowns.

“There were several works in Ancient Greek in the office; histories by Herodotus and Thucydides. I thought perhaps he was taking an interest outside his subject.”

Phipps’ face clears. “Oh. No. No, those were mine; I had leant them to him some time ago. Regis said he was interested on brushing up on some of his schoolboy lessons. You know. A bit of fun.”

It doesn’t sound like any kind of fun Jakes has heard of, but he lets it slide. “Did he have any enemies?” he asks, trying to get this utterly unorthodox interrogation back on track. 

“Regis? Enemies? I shouldn’t think so. Perhaps one or two of the SCR might have found him a bit of a bore on his subject, but nothing worse. Why – was it foul play, then?”

“The investigation is ongoing,” replies Jakes, flatly. “Dr Appleby’s office – was it always such a tip? Or …?”

“Oh, it was always like that. Regis was one of the most untidy men in college; always keeping his papers all over. He seemed to be able to keep track of them, but if ever anyone else needed anything we had to hunt like the dickens to turn it up.”

“Right. Thank you. That’ll be all for now.”

  
***

They make their way out of college; the rain has lightened up to a fine mist; Jakes leaves the umbrella down and turns up his coat collar against it. Morse shoves his hands into his pockets, looking ornery and displeased.

The day is depressingly grey; as they walk through the dampness to the car Jakes finds his stomach growling, feels the longing to be somewhere warm and snug out of the spring chill. He glances at his watch; it’s gone twelve. 

“Did you get Appleby’s address?”

“Yes.”

“Fine; we’ll go over after lunch.”

Morse gives him an unimpressed look. “I don’t eat.”

“Then I guess you’ll go hungry, won’t you?”

  
***

Morse may not eat, but it transpires that he _does_ drink. He downs a pint of best while Jakes polishes off a ploughman’s and lager.

“Thought songbirds didn’t need to eat,” he says, looking at the pint sitting in front of Morse on the scarred table surface. That they get the sustenance they need elsewhere is common knowledge; songbirds don’t just live for sex, they live _on_ it. 

“Preference doesn’t imply inability,” replies Morse, reluctantly. “It’s sometimes expected of us – especially in social settings.”

“Fancy dos and the like. You there on Thursday’s arm.” He sneers. Despite the blatant impossibility of it, his mind has already conjured up a picture of a room full of well-dressed party-goers, silk dresses and black ties. And in their midst Morse in Thursday’s arms, stepping in perfect synchrony to the music, shining like a flame in the light pouring down through crystal chandeliers. Desire given a physical form, sensuality made human. Nearly human. 

Jakes looks up to the songbird before him; for a minute as ire slips across Morse’s face his eyes flash – he’s all haughty and impetuous and absolutely stunning in the fire of his anger. Then a scowl sets in and he leans forward, back bent and elbows spilling out to the side.

“He’s my guv’nor,” says Morse, in a quiet tone underlain by steel.

“He’s your bloody keeper. You think I don’t know what you get up to – you think the whole nick doesn’t know what you get up to? You’re his kept thing, living in your own feathered nest so his wife doesn’t have to see how he –”

“You know _nothing_ about us,” barks Morse, hammering his hands down on the table so hard the glasses rattle, beer slopping up the sides. “Don’t ever think you do.” He slams up to his feet. “I’ll be in the car.”

And then he’s gone.

  
***

They drive in silence. Morse stares straight out the window, speaking only to share Appleby’s address. It’s a redbrick terraced house near the Cherwell just east of St Hugh’s College. Appleby owned the right-most house, situated beside a neat little garden with a tall copper birch.

They obtain a key from Appleby’s neighbour and let themselves into the dark house. “You do the ground floor, I’ll do upstairs,” orders Jakes; Morse slips past him silently. 

The upstairs of the house is nearly as much of a tip as the office, only here it’s personal effects that have been strewn about. Clothes, books, a tennis racket, shoes, a box of chocolates – it’s a complete hodgepodge. Jakes sifts through the master bedroom and bathroom looking for anything out of place, and doesn’t find it – although how he would know given the state of things is a mystery. The guest room at least is clear and empty; it’s obvious Appleby made no use of it. 

From downstairs there comes the sound of running feet, and the front door slamming. Jakes pauses, about to mount to the attic. “Morse?” 

There’s no answer.

He treads downstairs, looking out through the glass in the front door as he goes; there’s no sign of Morse outside. He turns and goes deeper into the house. Looks into the empty front dining room, the kitchen, and to the study at the back.

On the wall, a painting has been taken down to show a wall-mounted safe. 

On the floor beneath it is Morse, lying in a heap. He’s not moving.


	6. Bright Work (Part 2)

Police officers are trained not to freeze when confronted with complex situations, from the bizarre to the appalling. Which is why when Jakes sees Morse lying prone on the floor he immediately notes the movement of Morse’s side as he breathes, and the marble statuette of a naked woman on the floor beside him.

Then he’s striding directly to the phone sitting on the study desk and calling through to the station. “This is DS Jakes; I need support at 44 Fyfield Road. Man down. Notify Inspector Thursday and call for an ambulance.”

The ambulance may be overkill, but he doesn’t want to risk lasting damage to Thursday’s property, especially such valuable property. He hangs up on the duty sergeant and turns to stare down at Morse’s crumpled form. 

The songbird has fallen face-down, right arm stretched outwards towards the wall as though he were reaching for something. His legs are splayed to the side, trouser hems damp from walking through puddles. 

Jakes stalks over and slowly squats down beside him. There’s no sign on his coat of injuries to his body; his thick, fiery hair shows no signs of the telling wet glint of blood. “Morse?”

No answer.

Slowly, carefully, he reaches out, grasps Morse’s narrow shoulder and pulls. Morse rolls over smoothly onto his back, head lolling to the side.

Time stills, as though an invisible hand had reached out to stop the ticking of its pendulum. Jakes stares down at the unconscious man before him for what seems an eternity, and his heart begins to ache with the keenness of his growing desire. Sleeping Beauty couldn’t have held a flame to Morse, to the sharp clean lines of his face, the flawlessness of his skin, the soft pink of his lips and the gentle brush of his lashes against his cheek. 

Jakes shifts unconsciously, moving to straddle Morse’s hips, arms spread on either side of Morse’s shoulders supporting his weight. He bends slow as a sapling in the wind, closer and closer until he can smell Morse’s musky scent – he smells ravishing, of summer rain and citrus peel and something baser, an unmistakable promise of intimacy. Jakes licks his lips, suddenly hungry for the taste of Morse, to run his tongue over soft lips and smooth skin, to take what’s on offer before him. His hips are twitching to be ground against Morse’s, his prick begging for the heat of Morse’s skin. 

He’s lowering himself when the front door bursts open with a crash. “Jakes? Morse?” Thursday’s voice booms through the silent house. 

The spell shatters like glass; Jakes withdraws so fast he catches his foot on Morse’s knee and tumbles backwards onto his arse, landing on the thin rug with such force he feels it rumple beneath him. He scrambles to his feet, just regaining them as Thursday comes striding through the study door like a thundercloud, face tight with concern. 

“What the hell happened here?” he demands, crossing over to Morse’s side and dropping to one knee. 

“I’m not sure, sir,” manages Jakes, playing for time. His trousers are too tight and he tries to turn partially away to hide the hideous, guilty fact. But Thursday has eyes only for Morse. He cards a careful hand through Morse’s hair and raises his palm afterwards: no blood. “He was on the floor when I came in. Might have been struck by that statue. I was upstairs; heard someone running out of the house, and came down to find him like that.”

Thursday glances at the stone statuette on the rug beside Morse, then back to the songbird. He gives Morse a gentle shake, then a harder one. Morse takes a deep breath, legs stretching outwards as he rises towards wakefulness.

Behind them a pair of PCs hurry in through the door, looking for orders. “Unknown suspect,” says Jakes, “He did a bunk. Go take a look around the neighbourhood, see if anyone saw anything suspicious.”

“Yes, sir.” They run out, heavy shoes pounding on the hardwood floor in the hallway. 

Jakes glances back towards Morse just in time to see him blink open his sea-blue eyes, staring up at Thursday. “Sir?”

 _Sir_ , thinks Jakes, disgustedly. _He calls him Sir._

But the truth of it is, it’s himself he’s disgusted with. So sick he feels nauseous, feels his skin creeping over his back and his nails itching to dig themselves into his palms. 

Because if Thursday hadn’t come in when he did, Jakes would have taken what he wanted, then and there on the floor. And then he would have become exactly what he hates most in this world, one of the monsters who haunt his nightmares and his memories. 

He feels a surge of wrath, a rising wall of acid burning its way through his bones, eating away at his tendons, his muscles, rising to heat his skin from the inside out. For the first fleeting moment the rage is directed inward, at his mistake, his lust, his greed. Then a second, more powerful wave surges through him – anger at Morse. At his seductive trickery, at the power he has to force men to need something so deeply wrong, to plant dark dreams in their heads and make them tear themselves apart with want. 

“Sergeant, fetch a glass of water. Or spirits, if there is any.”

Jakes snaps to attention, finds his spine rigid and his jaw tight. “Right,” he grinds out, turning away from the semi-conscious songbird and the nexus of hatred he’s inspired. He hurries out into the kitchen and roots around quickly through the cupboards. He finds some cooking sherry – _more than good enough_ , he thinks, and dashes some out into the first glass that comes to hand – a souvenir mug from Blackpool. 

When he returns to the study Morse is sitting up with Thursday’s arm supporting his back; the inspector has loosened Morse’s tie and undone the top button of his shirt. Morse’s head is low and his breathing is rough, breath catching audibly in his throat. Jakes feels no sympathy for his discomfort, only a tiny shard of delight, _serves you right._

“What happened?” Morse asks, without looking up.

“We were hoping you could tell us. Sergeant Jakes found you on the floor; looks like someone conked you with a statue.”

Morse groans, one hand carding gently through his hair; he stops halfway, cringing. “Feels like it,” he mutters. 

Jakes steps in. “Here,” he says roughly, pushing the mug forward; Thursday looks up and takes it with his free hand when Morse fails to react. 

“Have a drink of this,” suggests Thursday, holding up the mug. 

“Don’t want it. Feel sick,” says Morse, thickly. Thursday looks to him and Jakes casts his eye about for a bin and finds one tucked away beside the desk; he brings it over but Morse fails to begin heaving. “I can’t remember what happened.” He sounds worried, fretful. 

“What’s the last thing you _do_ remember?” prompts Thursday gently, moving his hand up to clasp Morse’s shoulder. Morse rubs distractedly at his forehead. 

“Talking to the junior professor… Phipps. In his office. He leant Appleby some books.” Morse’s thoughts trickle out slowly, disjointedly. 

_That’s lunch forgotten, then_ , thinks Jakes. He’s not sure whether or not to be pleased the songbird won’t remember the insult. 

Thursday looks up at Jakes, frowning over Morse’s head. “Called for an ambulance, did you?”

“Yes, sir,” he says, dispassionately. 

Thursday nods approvingly and turns back to Morse. “Then we’ll get you properly checked out. Sounds as though you’ve a nice concussion in the offing.”

Morse groans again. 

“Inspector Thursday?” 

All three of them pause, Jakes and Thursday both looking up at the high, reedy voice which echoes through the house. Jakes has only heard it once before, but he recognizes it easily. Their new DCS, Bright. 

“In here, sir,” calls Thursday, rising from his place beside Morse and turning towards the door just as Bright stalks in, accompanied by Strange. 

“What on Earth has been happening here?” asks Bright, looking around the untidy room. 

“Someone got the jump on Morse, sir. Caught him a right wallop on the head. Ambulance’s on its way.” 

“Constable Morse, isn’t it?” Bright peers down myopically at Morse. “Well, what happened? Out with it, man. Who was it who…” he trails off as Morse raises his head.

Jakes takes one look at him – at his wide sapphire eyes and the smooth curve of his jaw and the long graceful line of his throat – and then drags his eyes away, focusing instead on the anger simmering inside him and, in front of him, the DCS. 

Bright’s face goes momentarily slack; then Jakes sees Thursday nudge Morse out of the corner of his eye and Bright blinks, his dazed look turning to one of affront. “What the dickens is this?” he demands, looking from Thursday to Morse. 

“His paperwork’s all in order, sir,” says Thursday, quietly. “Signed off by the Chief Constable.”

“Indeed?” demands Bright. “A songbird working as a police officer? Serving as an inspector’s bagman? Patently absurd. Where’s his keeper? He ought to be at home, in his proper place.”

“Keeping a bed warm, you mean,” breaks in Morse. “Inspector Thursday is my keeper – he’s given me my choice of occupation.”

“Thursday,” repeats Bright, aghast. 

“Don’t believe me?” asks Morse, voice very gruff. He’s fumbling at his throat; after a second he produces the chain from around his neck, tag hanging from his fist. 

“Morse,” says Thursday, softly. 

Morse doesn’t move, still holding his tag of ownership up, staring impetuously at Bright. 

“That’s enough,” says Thursday. Morse stiffens, then slowly lets the chain slip through his fingers, lowering his hand. 

From outside there’s the sound of a car pulling up, then the pounding of feet up the front stairs. Jakes steps out to see the ambulance men coming into the house; he waves them through. “Ambulance is here, sir,” he reports, turning.

The room, which until then had been a tableau – Bright and Morse locked in angry gazes, Thursday behind Morse trying to intercede, Strange standing awkwardly in the corner – breaks up. Bright reaches up to straighten his tie; Thursday sets a heavy hand on Morse’s shoulder, and Morse turns slowly to look up at him, face drawn.

“Here now,” says Thursday, lowering his arm to Morse’s elbow. “You’d best be getting yourself to hospital; get that head of yours checked out properly.”

“I’m fine,” protests Morse dully, looking away. 

Thursday waves the men over and they approach. “Up you come, or do you need the trolley?”

“No, I can stand,” says Morse, and is guided to his feet by Thursday. He stands steadily, one hand protectively cupped over the back of his head, but stays close to Thursday. 

“Good lad. Strange’ll tag along with you, see you home once you’ve been checked out. Right?” At his words the PC drifts over, and Thursday hands Morse off to him.

“Yes, sir,” mutters Morse mutinously. But he follows the ambulance men out, one hand on Strange’s shoulder for balance.

Bright waits for them to disappear through the door before turning his cold eyes on Thursday. “Sergeant, if you would excuse us?”

“I’ll go look to the PCs, sir,” he says, hurrying out and turning to pull the door to behind him. He hears the sharp snap of Bright’s voice in the room beyond as he does so.

“Your songbird – your _bagman_? You can’t expect me to turn a blind eye to that kind of impropriety, Thursday.”

Jakes smiles as he pads out of the house, some of his anger abating in the face of Bright’s outrage. He couldn’t have asked for anything better than for keeper and songbird to be taken down a peg by their new Super.

  
***

Out in the street the PCs are going door to door looking for anyone who saw Morse’s mystery assailant doing a runner. So far, no luck. Jakes spends a few minutes in the Jag calling back to the nick to report: man down calls make everyone jittery. While he’s there he sees Bright march out to his white Rover; a toy car for a toy soldier. The tiny car tips under even Bright’s featherweight, then the engine turns over and he pulls out into the still street. Jakes watches him go, then steps out of the Jag and returns to the house. The neighbours are beginning to gather in whispery groups, staring watchfully at the police presence; Jakes sidles past them.

When he gets back to the study Thursday is examining the locked safe set in the wall. The inspector turns at the sound of Jakes’ entry.

“Everything alright, sir?” asks Jakes smoothly. Thursday gives him a bland look.

“Never you mind about that. Look here.” He points to a damp spot on the carpet in the corner of the room between a bookshelf and a low table, on the opposite side of the room from the window. It’s in shadows, unobtrusive from where Jakes stands in the doorway. “Morse surprised someone in the study. They were standing in the dark corner when he came in. Whoever it was picked up the statue from the table and conked Morse when he got the chance. The question is – was it Morse who took down the picture, or our mystery man?”

“Must have been the attacker, surely sir. Morse could only have been in the room a minute if he didn’t notice the other man. Couldn’t’ve found the safe in that time.”

“It’ll need fingerprints to tell us for sure,” says Thursday, looking to the framed picture leant up against the wall. “Better get forensics down here. And a locksmith.”

“Sir?”

“Whichever of them it was found the safe, we need it opened. And get onto DeBryn; I want a rush on that autopsy,” he finishes, grimly.

  
***

Jakes puts through the calls for forensics and a locksmith from the car before leaving; one of the two assigned PCs remains behind standing guard on the door.

He drives to the hospital slowly – he has a lot on his mind. How Morse got a chit signed by the Chief Constable for one; how long he’ll last in his job for another. His loss will undeniably be Jakes’ gain – bagman is a detective sergeant’s position, not a constable’s. And Bright seems like nothing if not the type to play by the rules. 

Cowley General looks grim and industrial following the morning’s heavy rain; the concrete walls are grey with lingering damp staining, planted beds bedraggled and beaten down. Jakes parks in the visitor’s car park; it’s newly-laid asphalt, smooth and black with freshly-painted lines. Clearly there has been considerable recent construction at the hospital.

Jakes enters through the front doors, wincing at the familiar hospital scent of dried air and astringent cleaners. He follows the now-familiar path to the mortuary, down the echoing stairwell and along the basement hallway. At the end of the hall he opens the door to the autopsy suite to find DeBryn standing over a metal gurney occupied by a naked man, a long pair of bolt cutters in his hands. Given that the implement’s nearly half as tall as the pathologist and that he’s standing on tip-toes to apply the end to the chest cavity it would be a comical sight, if the metal tips weren’t red and dripping.

“You have an interesting knack for catching me at a bad time, sergeant,” observes the pathologist. He squeezes the bolt cutters together, producing a sharp wet crack from the corpse. 

“Is that Appleby?” asks Jakes, stepping closer and hearing the doors close behind him. The don had been face-down when he last saw him; the thick face and double chin mean nothing to him. 

“Oxford is as of yet blessedly free of waits when it comes to post mortems.” DeBryn cuts through another bone. “This is he,” he adds, when Jakes fails to look enlightened. 

Jakes looks into the red mess that is the chest cavity; the skin has been peeled away from muscle and bone. He swallows down his discomfort. “I need the results soon as you can get ‘em,” he says, looking back to the pathologist. 

DeBryn blinks owlishly. “Why the sudden rush?”

“Someone was going through Appleby’s house when we turned up. They caught Morse a crack on the head.”

DeBryn lowers the bolt cutters. “Is he alright?”

Jakes experiences a brief surge of anger – it wasn’t Morse who had his moral compass fried nearly past saving. Wasn’t Morse who had his control stripped from him. The more he thinks about it the dirtier he feels, the more _violated._

“Fine, he answers sharply. “Walking and talking.”

DeBryn nods. “Then all’s as it should be.”

“How’s that?”

The pathologist raises the bolt cutters and snaps a final rib before reaching in to open the chest. “Some like it rough,” he says, talking at the chest cavity rather than Jakes. “Songbirds are adept at bouncing back. Heightened recovery.”

“Pleasure’s their line…” begins Jakes. DeBryn looks up, face stern.

“And occasionally, by way of it, abuse. Society doesn’t look too closely at what goes on behind closed doors; much easier to pass judgement on perceived sinners from the outside.”

Jakes shifts, crossing his arms; that bolt hits too close to home. “They can appeal against cruelty,” he says instead, watching a bead of blood run down the blade of the bolt cutters now lying on an adjacent table. 

“It’s not the same as having a right to freedom, sergeant. Or to own property, or to inherit, for that matter.”

Jakes raises a cool eyebrow. “Don’t need all that if you’re a kept thing. And if we let ‘em out of their cages where would they be? Pimped out to the highest bidder, bought and sold on the black market like the good they are.”

“Much nicer for them to have the certainty of a legal cage than the possibility of an illegal one, then,” comments DeBryn, dryly. “Who knows – otherwise they might have a chance at freedom.”

“Morse is free enough,” replies Jakes, fingers itching to form fists, anger searing beneath his skin. _Too free_ , he thinks, darkly, remembering the pale outline of the songbird’s sleeping face beneath his, all beauty and unconscious seduction. 

“For now. And if once he falls in the hands of a traditionalist, like many of his kind?”

Jakes shrugs. “Then he’ll have to lump it. That’s his lot. It’s what he’s for.”

“I believe I would work faster alone,” says the pathologist, coldly. “I’ll call through with the results.”

There’s no point arguing with the man: police officers wait on the pathologist, not the other way around. Jakes gives a stiff nod and walks out.

  
***

Back at the station he sits at his desk filling out an incident report. It’s hard to try to present an unbiased statement of fact when phrases like _by his own incompetence_ , and _having woefully failed to secure the premises_ keep trying to find their way onto the page in reference to the assault on Morse.

Really though, his mind is elsewhere. Lingering somewhere between Thursday’s words, _His paperwork’s all in order; signed off by the Chief Constable_ , and DeBryn’s, _Some like it rough_. And, much as he’s actively trying to repress it, on the memory of Morse’s warm body beneath his, on the scent of Morse’s skin and the keenness of his own desire. 

He balls his most recent crack at the report up and chucks it at the bin; it bounces off the side and rolls on the linoleum floor. Jakes curses and lights a cigarette. 

What does it matter if Morse is a mystery, and worse, an unmitigated pain in the arse? Morse isn’t his business – he’s Thursday’s concern. 

_It matters_ , Jakes thinks darkly, _because_ I’m _the one being made a fool of._ A fool? Or something worse; much worse.

The phone rings; Jakes picks it up with his left, cigarette still between the fingers of his right. “DS Jakes,” he answers, flatly.

“It’s DeBryn. I’m calling to report that Dr Appleby’s death was, indeed, murder.”

 _Halle-bloody-lujah_ , thinks Jakes. “How was he killed?”

“His head was slammed down into the desk. Normally the attack wouldn’t have been fatal, however in Appleby’s case there was a brain aneurism in the frontal lobe; it burst from the impact of his head being driven against the desk, killing him almost instantly.”

“So whoever did it didn’t mean to kill him,” muses Jakes, taking a drag.

“Most likely not. Death was, nonetheless, the result.”

“Right. Thank you.”

DeBryn hangs up without comment. Jakes gets up and goes to inform Thursday.


	7. Bright Work (Part 3)

Thursday’s on the phone when Jakes steps in to report to him; the inspector holds up a finger in silent request for Jakes’ time, while he nods at the phone. “Yes. Yes. Good. See him home, and tell him he’s not to come in tomorrow if he doesn’t feel fit. Right.” Thursday hangs up, then passes a hand over his suddenly weary face; it’s the most human Jakes has seen him look. Up until now the inspector has been by turns cold, thoughtful and polite, but he’s always held himself slightly apart. It’s not Morse’s standoffish aloofness, just a carefully-calculated distance that keeps him as a distinct other from the rest of the blokes. 

“Of course, he’ll come in regardless,” says Thursday, apparently voicing an inner thought. He sighs and looks up. “What can I do for you, sergeant?”

“Heard back from the pathologist, sir. It was murder. Or manslaughter, at least. May not have been intentional. Victim had a brain aneurysm that burst when his head was slammed down into his desk.”

“Any report back on the fingerprints?”

“Still waiting on that, sir.”

“Fine. Good work. You might as well run me home; nothing else likely to be doing tonight.” Thursday stands, chair rolling away from him, and straightens his jacket. 

Jakes waits for him to fetch his coat and hat, then proceeds him out of the office.

  
***

They make the drive in silence; Jakes still feels the heat of his earlier anger, and Thursday is associated closely enough with Morse that it’s easy to tar him with the same brush. If he kept Morse on a shorter leash, misunderstandings wouldn’t happen. Hell, Jakes like as not wouldn’t have to deal with him at all. If only the Chief Constable hadn’t signed off on his working as a detective – and why had he; what could the man possibly have been thinking? Jakes glowers out at the world beyond the windscreen, irate and dissatisfied.

They arrive at Thursday’s house and he stops the car. Thursday nods to him, hand on the door handle. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the office; I’ll give you a ring if I need a lift.”

“Yes, sir.”

Thursday gets out, and Jakes turns the car around and heads back to the nick.

  
***

The rain starts up again on his drive back, so after parking the car in the motor pool Jakes heads around the front of the building and down the street to Cowley Parade, where he catches his bus. He sits by a window and watches the water beading on the thick glass, watches the grey world outside pass by. It’s peaceful, calming after a day full of self-loathing and wrath. He almost forgets to get up when his stop arrives, turning up his collar against the spitting rain before stepping down.

His flat is cold and dark when he steps in past the flimsy wooden door; he considers momentarily turning and leaving, walking back out to find a pub to ensconce himself in warmth and light and drink. But he’s not in the mood for the noise, for the press of bodies and the endless small talk. He sheds his coat and pulls on a jumper against the chill, before stepping into the kitchen and pouring himself a tumbler of scotch while he turns on the cooker to heat up some soup. 

There’s a football match on the radio; he tries to listen to it while he eats dinner, absently pilling the bread he eats along with his soup with his free hand. It’s not that he’s not hungry; his stomach is grateful for the warm food filling it. It’s just that his thoughts are elsewhere. Back in Oxford, in Appleby’s study. It’s something not even Arsenal versus Man Utd can turn his mind from. 

He nearly forced himself on Morse.

He tears off another piece of bread and rolls it between his thumb and middle finger into a tiny, perfect circle. Then another. And another. 

He was _made_ to nearly force himself on Morse. 

He rolls another ball. 

_Morse_ made him nearly commit rape. 

With a jerk of his hand he sweeps the collection of bread pellets onto the floor, expelling his breath angrily from his lungs. 

Jakes sits alone at his table staring at his empty bowl, deaf to the ongoing drone of the football commentator. Eventually he shoves his chair out from the table, stands, and goes to pour himself more scotch.

  
***

He’s sitting in a warm pool of water, rain droplets creating tiny ripples on the smooth surface. He draws his hand through the water, watching the wave that rides away from his fingers. He feels safe and comfortable, deliciously so, surrounded by a feeling of mellow completion. Here nothing is needed of him, and he needs nothing – just to go on feeling at rest. At peace.

He runs his hand over the smooth warmth of the water’s surface and as he does it becomes silken soft, becomes warm skin that smells musky, of rainstorms and lemon peel and something saltier. He presses his lips to it and finds it delightfully firm beneath him, finds a wet mouth to press open kisses to, finds narrow hips to drive his own against.

Beneath him, Morse’s blue eyes open and he stares up with a startled face.

Jakes wakes up with a cry. He’s tangled in his sheets, covered in a sheen of sweat and shamefully hard. He rolls over, pounding his fist into the mattress.

“Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck._ ”

  
***

The next day dawns bright and beautiful; Jakes spends the entire sunny bus ride glowering, day overshadowed by the night before. By the ridiculous, ruinous, _barbarous_ nature of his unconscious mind.

Matters aren’t improved when Morse turns out to be in the office, sitting at his desk going over his paperwork. 

“Not at home, then,” says Jakes as he comes to a stop in front of Morse’s desk, not making much of a show at suppressing his disappointment.

The songbird’s eyes flick up, sharp blue slivers in the otherwise drab office. “I’m fit for duty.”

He’s sitting upright, at least, without apparent sign of pain or discomfort. But there are dark circles under his eyes, and tightness to the thin line of his mouth. It’s perversely attractive, in a waifish, tubercular way. Jakes quashes that thought, and the shiver it sends down his spine.

“That what Thursday thinks?” he asks.

“I’m perfectly capable of making my own decisions.”

Jakes sneers; Morse flushes angrily but looks away first. Jakes pushes past him to his desk, shifting out of his coat and flinging it on top of Morse’s on the stand; he takes his seat with such force that the chair rolls away. Cursing, he pulls himself back to his desk and produces a cigarette, taking a hungry draw as he lights it. It’s going to be a long day.

  
***

It’s mid-morning when forensics rings through. He picks up the phone, tucking the pencil he had been using to take notes behind his ear.

“Sergeant Jakes?”

“That’s right.”

“This is Bury in forensics. We’ve finished with the fingerprints from the painting frame; two distinct sets of prints. One matches Dr Appleby’s, the other is unknown. The unknown set of prints were also found on numerous other surfaces, including door handles, books and papers.”

“And you checked them against DC Morse?”

“Standard procedure is to check against all officers at the scene. No match,” repeats the man, sounding bored. “The same fingerprints were also found on the statuette on the study floor,” he adds, as if by an afterthought. Jakes represses a biting remark. 

“Right. Thanks.” He hangs up, scrawling forensics’ conclusion in his notebook. He’s only just finished when the phone rings again. He picks it up, half-expecting Bury back again. “Jakes.”

“This is PC Nixon at the scene, Sarge. We’ve got the safe open.”

Jakes straightens, pencil falling from his fingers to the floor. “What’s inside?” Out of the corner of his eye he sees Morse look up. 

“Papers. Lots of papers. About comets and stars and planets, Sarge.”

“Bring the lot of it back to the nick.”

“Yes, Sarge.”

Jakes hangs up, then stands and walks into Thursday’s office, ignoring Morse’s upraised face. The inspector is sitting cleaning out his pipe; he looks up and raises his eyebrows at Jakes’ entrance. 

“Heard back from forensics, sir – someone other than Appleby handled the picture frame, and the statuette. Definitely not Morse. And the safe’s open. Apparently it’s all paper inside; sounds as though it’s to do with Appleby’s work. Nixon’s bringing it back here for us to take a look at. Something in it must have been valuable enough to kill for.”

“Or at least house-break,” says Thursday evenly. “Come fetch me when the papers arrive.”

  
***

It turns out that Nixon was correct; the papers are predominantly to do with Appleby’s astronomical work, as well as an uninteresting copy of a will leaving Appleby’s estate to the University, and a couple hundred quid in cash. Jakes is mildly surprised the latter made it to the nick; the banknotes would have been as likely to disappear in County.

The papers are mainly hand-written notes and several more finalized typed versions of a scientific paper so chalk-full of jargon that Jakes can barely make anything out of it. 

“Looks like it’s to do with the discovery of a new comet,” says Thursday eventually, after he, Jakes and Morse have all had a crack at it. They’re sitting crowded around Thursday’s desk with the iterations of the paper spread on its wooden surface, most of them covered with scrawling notes in pencil. Appleby’s hand is stiff and upright, letters spiked with an almost violent aspect.

“Still discovering new comets, are we?” asks Jakes, frowning.

“I don’t see why not; we’ve just proven radio waves emanating from space,” replies Morse, earning himself an unimpressed look. 

“Aliens, is it?” drawls Jakes.

“No; it’s left-over from the Big Bang. It’s been predicted by the Americans for some time now.”

“Well bully for them. Meanwhile, in the world of policing, where does that leave us?”

There’s a tap on the door; all three of them look up to see DCS Bright in the doorway. They straighten, Jakes and Morse turning in their chairs. 

“Sir,” says Thursday, politely. 

“I understand you’re reviewing the material that was found in Dr Appleby’s safe.”

“That’s right sir,” says Thursday, indicating the papers spread out on his desk. “Looks like versions of an academic paper.”

Bright comes forward and takes up the cleanest copy, reading through it for a minute, head angled slightly to the side and eyes narrowed for focus. “Something about a meteor, is it?”

“A comet, sir. Orbiting the sun in an extended elliptical orbit,” says Morse. Jakes catches Thursday giving him a cautioning look, which Morse misses entirely. Bright’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t comment on the correction. “He’s pinpointed the last time the comet was seen as 430 BC, going off Thucydides. Which explains the books in his office,” he adds, as though it were self-evident.

Bright frowns. “What books?”

“He had a collection of ancient histories, sir. He must have been trying to identify occasions in the past when the same comet had passed by Earth, sir. Using existing records to prove it had been seen before.”

“Why would that matter?”

“I imagine there would be significantly more prestige to identify a comet which has a repeating schedule, and has been seen before,” says Morse. It’s news to Jakes, but the songbird sounds firm about his theory. 

“Like Halley,” says Bright.

Morse’s face takes on a moderating look. “Well, it’s similar, sir,” he says, in a tone that is clearly an appeasement; Bright stiffens. “Only instead of a gap of 75 years, this is over two thousand. Assuming he didn’t miss any appearances.”

“I had no idea we were fostering an astronomer in our midst,” says Bright, dryly. Then, turning to the inspector: “What is your next step, Thursday?”

“Well, sir…”

“We ought to examine his books again, sir,” breaks in Morse. With his back to Thursday, he misses the suppressing look the inspector shoots him. “And his office, too. If he was killed for this paper…”

Bright bristles. “Nonsense. Why would anyone kill for a journal submission?”

“But –” begins Morse, and gets no further.

“Much more likely to be a crime of passion, or to do with money. Was anything else found in his safe?”

“A couple hundred quid, sir,” answers Jakes, promptly. 

“There you are. Could easily have been a hard-up student who felt he was owed something; he tried to get the money from Appleby in his office, failed, and decided to go through his home instead.”

Morse is frowning now, face tight and impetuous. His tone, when he speaks again, is curt and dismissive. “It’s much more likely that –”

“What Morse is trying to say, sir,” breaks in Thursday, heavily, “is that academics get all sorts of bees in their bonnets when it comes to publishing. Appleby clearly felt this was sensitive enough to need to be locked up in his house, away from College.”

Bright holds himself still, considering. They wait in silence, Morse fidgeting impatiently.

“Very well. Sergeant Jakes may pursue the suggestion that Appleby’s office be searched.”

Morse stiffens, raising his chin querulously. “I’ll need to be involved – the books –”

Bright’s thin face whitens as he turns to look at Morse. “Are you questioning your orders, constable?”

“It’s just that –”

“You’re out of line,” snaps Bright. Morse sets his shoulders, staring straight back unflinchingly.

“I have a right to determine my line of enquiry; I’m Inspector Thursday’s bagman, sir.”

“Damned impertinent is what you are,” replies Bright. “A trait not to be applauded in any officer, much less an inspector’s bagman.”

“Morse is still suffering from the concussion, sir,” says Thursday, hastily. “He ought to have stayed home.”

“I can see that quite plainly.” Bright’s voice is flat and unsympathetic; his eyes are cold and hard. “You had best see yourself home, constable; this is a matter for your elders and betters.”

Morse gets slowly to his feet; for a moment Jakes thinks he’s going to object. But a heavy look from Thursday sends him gliding out of the room on silent feet; they watch through the office’s windows as he gathers up his coat and walks out of the CID office. 

“He spent several hours in hospital yesterday, sir; he’s not himself.”

“That remains to be seen. For now I would like you to follow up on the potential student angle. The books can wait.”

“Yes, sir,” replies Thursday, with brisk submissiveness.

  
***

Jakes obtains a roster from the Dean and spends the day interviewing Appleby’s students in an empty office lent to him by the college. They mostly strike him as well-to-do, dull and condescending. Not quite out of the top drawer, but close enough that it makes no difference to him. The kind of men who live their lives in their heads, instead of focusing on what’s in front of them. He fails to turn up any motive other than the money in the safe – but the idea that well-off college students would attack their professor for the chance to rob his house seems far-fetched, regardless of Bright’s interest in it.

The interviews last well into the afternoon, by which time he’s tired and bored. He goes by Appleby’s office to give it a once-over and bring Morse’s precious books back to the nick. Only to find the books are missing from their place on the side table. 

His first thought is Phipps, who claimed ownership of them, so he goes down the hall and knocks on the professor’s half-open door. Poking his head in he sees Phipps sitting at his desk; the man looks up. “Oh, sergeant. Can I help you?”

“I was looking for those books of yours from yesterday. The old histories.”

“Oh, Thucydides and the like? Your colleague came by for them this morning. The one from yesterday.”

 _Morse_ , thinks Jakes, angrily. _That sneaky sod._

  
***

He gets Morse’s address from dispatch. It’s a second-storey flat near the golf course in a building whose grey façade is beginning to moulder, the pavement outside shot through with cracks and the uneven dips in the street filled with puddles from yesterday’s downpour.

A ground-floor tenant lets him in after he displays his warrant card, pointing him to the staircase. Jakes mounts the stairs in silent irritation, noting the carpet that’s worn through to the wood in some spots, and the damp stains on one wall. Clearly Thursday can’t afford much for his pet while keeping up a house of his own.

He knocks on the door and hears Morse shuffling inside; eventually the door is opened, Morse standing in the frame arms akimbo. He’s shed his jacket and tie, shirt open at the neck to reveal the long pale column of his throat and the straight lines of his collarbones. 

“Enjoying your time off?” Jakes asks, allowing his gaze to slant critically over Morse’s lean frame before rising to catch Morse’s scowl. Behind the songbird he gets a glimpse of his flat; it’s nearly as much a tip as Appleby’s house – books and newspapers are scattered over all available surfaces, along with the occasional tie and discarded pull-over. 

“Here to gloat?” 

“No; you took something you oughtn’t’ve.” He pushes past Morse into his flat. In line with the rest of his building it’s been poorly furnished and kept; chipping plaster, worn carpet and cheap, ancient furniture. He had been expecting something light and airy, with modern conveniences and sleek lines. This has a grimy kitchen counter shoved into one corner, a loveless single bed in the other and two shelves and a table in between. The kind of place an assembly-line worker would live, not a songbird. Wherever Thursday and he spend their time together, it can’t be here. 

He shakes away his surprise at Morse’s squalid living quarters and runs his eyes over the contents; he has to look no further than the central table to spot the volumes taken from Appleby’s office. “That wouldn’t go down too well with Mr Bright,” he says, turning to look at the songbird. 

“So tell him. Or I will.” Morse strides past Jakes to the table and picks up one of the books, bound in coarse green fabric. He opens it and comes to stand beside Jakes, so that he can see the page. There are hand-written notes in pencil beside the printed letters. The unreadable letters, in a foreign alphabet. Here and there he can pick out As and Os, but most of the flowing script is completely unfamiliar. 

Morse seems undaunted, and as Jakes watches traces his forefinger over the page. As easily as if he were reading from English, he translates, “‘In the forty-eighth year of the priestess-ship of Chrysis at Argos, in the ephorate of Aenesias at Sparta, in the last month but two of the archonship of Pythodorus at Athens, a hairy star lit up the night sky while shooting stars fell like snow in its wake.’ The date is marked here in the margin as 430 BC.” He tilts the text towards Jakes so he can see the rounded letters spelling out the message. 

For a moment Jakes feels the cold shock of inferiority, the painful knowledge that he can’t even understand what Morse has just done, never mind replicate it. That he will never be able to pick up a foreign text and read from it as easily as he would the _Mail_. Envy burns like a fire in his chest, until he stomps down on it forcefully. 

“So what? We already knew he’d spotted the comet in the books.”

Morse taps the page over the round, loopy writing. “But look at the writing – that’s not Appleby’s hand. Someone else found the comet and took these notes. Probably Phipps.”

“So?” 

“So only Appleby was credited as author in the article. Losing the credit for discovering something like that – _that_ would be worth assaulting Appleby. And going through his home to make sure the article didn’t come to light and obtain a posthumous place in a journal. You told Thursday there was a matching set of prints on the picture frame and the statuette – someone should take Dr Phipps’ prints.”

“I don’t need you to tell me my job,” replies Jakes. Morse snaps the book shut and makes to put it down on the table; Jakes reaches out and takes it from him. “I’ll take this; it’s evidence.”

He turns and stalks out of the flat, hears Morse slam the door behind him as he treads down the stairs.

  
***

Phipps, when confronted with the book and the article, breaks down like an eroding dam. Jakes brings him back to the nick to be booked, and hares it up to the CID office to notify Thursday of his arrest.

The inspector is sitting in his office as usual, chair turned to look out the windows behind him. Smoke is rising in a blue stream from his pipe, it has a sweeter, woodier smell than cigarettes. Jakes knocks on the doorframe and he turns. His face is expressionless, thoughts locked away behind a mask of indifference. “Sergeant?”

“Arrested Dr Phipps, sir. He confessed to bashing Dr Appleby into the table; never expected him to die. Just wanted his piece of the credit for this comet. Completely mad, if you ask me.”

Thursday nods. “Anything else?” he asks, eventually.

Jakes takes a slow breath. “It was Morse who figured it out,” he says, at last. Better Thursday hear it from him than Morse. “He read it in one of those ancient books. Phipps was the one who found out that the comet had been around in ancient times. Appleby stole the discovery from him.”

“Very well.” Thursday takes out his pipe slowly and puts it down on its stand. “About Morse, sergeant. He will be taking up general duties for the foreseeable future. You will take his place as my bagman, at least until he completes his sergeant’s exam.”

Jakes’ heart flutters with sudden excitement; a smile tries to force its way out – in light of Thursday’s obvious ambivalence he fights it down. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“That’s all for now.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jakes walks out, shuts the door behind him, and lets out his breath in a long, slow exhalation. His hands fist with excitement, heart pounding in his chest. 

Finally, he’s in his rightful place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some comet description lifted from Book II Chapter VI of the History of the Peloponnesian War.


	8. Interlude II

Thursday double-checks the arrest report on Phipps, going over it with a pencil and catching a few mistakes – typographical lacunae, he’d once heard Morse say, and the elegant phrase stuck. When that’s done he empties out his pipe and begins cleaning it, disassembling it and working painstakingly with pipe cleaners dipped in alcohol, followed by the bristled cleaners. Afterwards he gives it a good polish, buffing the smooth surface ‘til he can see his face in the stem. Then he starts in on his in-tray, studiously avoiding looking at the clock on the mantle. 

He’s not sure how much longer he can put off the inevitable.

He’s already alone in the office; he sent Jakes home some time ago, watched the other men peter out, the last turning off the lights behind him. The office beyond his door is still and silent, the rows of empty desks slightly eerie in the darkness. 

Normally Morse would be here with him. They work late often, the two of them, Thursday with a nearly unmanageable load of paperwork and Morse preferring the silence. It’s no great wonder, the stares and jibes he gets during regular hours. 

Morse is the reason he can’t leave. Can’t switch out the light and go home, because before he goes he has no choice but to stop over at the tiny, dingy flat and do his duty. Break the news that Morse’s been returned to general duties, been stripped of his position as Thursday’s right hand, with the protection that it offered. He’s just become CID’s workhorse, and Thursday _knows_ the other men will have a cruder name for it. 

So he takes his time reviewing the chits from his tray, lasts it out until the sky begins to grow pink at the edges and the sunlight slanting into the CID office turns red. He rises with a sigh, dons his coat and hat, and heads downstairs to the motor pool.

  
***

Looking up from the pavement at Morse’s flat, Thursday wonders if his bagman – the phrase past bagman has yet to enter his vocabulary – ever misses his former living arrangement. It must have been a difficult adjustment for him, the come-down from a beautiful house in Oxford with Chippindale furniture and hardwood floors and crystal chandeliers to a one-room hovel whose water never runs hot and where the mice are audible in the walls.

Of course, that wouldn’t be the case if only Morse would let him subsidise his pay. Thursday’s not in the habit of ignoring his responsibilities. But then Morse would say he isn’t one – wouldn’t concede the accountability that goes hand in hand with ownership. Not under their arrangement. 

And that might be fair, might almost be right, if only he didn’t hold Morse’s life in his hands. However open Thursday may be to Morse finding the affection he needs elsewhere, society has its doors firmly shut to that possibility. Morse belongs to him, and only him, ‘til death do they part. Which means, however much he may deny it, he is Thursday’s responsibility. 

The sun drops below the line of buildings on the opposite side of the street, casting Morse’s building into shadows. Thursday straightens his shoulders, pulls out his key, and lets himself into the building.

  
***

He hears the music as soon as he gets to Morse’s floor; it guides him to the proper door. Morse answers his knock with a biro in his hand; as he pulls the door open he reaches up to tuck it absently behind his ear. The evening sun has already set beyond the flat’s windows; the light washing over Morse’s narrow frame comes from mismatched lamps standing about the flat, bathing the space in a soft glow.

Standing in the doorway Morse gives him a searching look, as though trying to divine from his appearance alone the reason for Thursday’s visit. Thursday can see the wheels turning in Morse’s sharp mind, see him trying to piece the puzzle together. 

The lad never quits.

“Sir,” he says, quizzically, securing the biro behind his ear with a smooth touch.

“Can I come in?” Thursday nods towards the interior of the flat. 

Morse steps back, waving him through. “Of course.”

Inside the music is louder, trapped by the thin walls in a sound bubble. A soprano is singing lightly in Italian: _I don't know how to love. I couldn't feel so great an emotion._ On the table a newspaper is spread open to the crossword page. 

Morse steps over and shuts off the record player, just as a man’s voice comes in to join the woman. Without the operatic accompaniment, the flat suddenly feels much quieter. 

“Can I get you something to drink?” Morse offers; Thursday waves him away.

“You’re alright.” He drifts over to the table to see Morse has completed half the crossword squares in the crossword in inked letters, each neatly filling its space. He looks up to find Morse watching him, waiting patiently. He shifts his weight, arms hanging heavily at his sides. “I don’t know how to say it, lad, so I just will: you’re being returned to general duties for the time being.”

He watches Morse’s face freeze, and sees it thaw into anger. Sees his eyes flashing with sudden betrayal, burning bright as magnesium. The diffuse light of the lamps catches in his hair so that it glows gold, creating a soft halo about the sharp lines of his face. Morse is paying no heed to his looks, is letting himself go. This once, Thursday says nothing about it. He has cause. 

“We talked about this; we knew it was a possibility,” says Thursday, gently. Morse flares out at him, throwing a long arm out in furious gesticulation, the motion still smoothly sinuous. 

“You said it wouldn’t happen. You said we had everything we needed to stop it – Standish’s signature, my case work –”

“Sometimes having the right support behind you isn’t enough.” _Like those times when you needle your Chief Super into a fit_ , he adds, silently. 

“I have the right to it,” snaps Morse. Thursday looks back as calmly as he can manage. 

“You know as well as I that technically, bagman is a sergeant’s job.”

“You once told me I was here on merit, that that was enough.” And the words hurt, now. Because he was, and now Thursday’s been left with a brownnoser from County instead of his bright lad. But some things can’t be changed; wishes lose hands down to reality. 

“Sometimes merit needs a little helping along. Tact. Discretion.” _Manners._

Morse bridles, cheeks flushing fetchingly as he strikes back. “What about good work? I solved Appleby’s murder, just like I solved the others. I’m a good detective!” 

“And a poor policeman,” retorts Thursday, patience beginning to wear thin. “No one can teach you the first; any fool can learn the second. You need to learn your trade.”

“Bright thinks I already know it. Thinks it’s there,” he points at his bed. “That’s why I’ve been knocked back.”

“ _Mr_ Bright,” corrects Thursday, flatly. “Respect, Morse. Diligence. Check your facts before you go off half-cocked – and don’t ride roughshod over your superior. That’s what you’re to learn. That’s why I agreed to your being returned to general duties,” he adds, sternly. 

“You _agreed_ ,” starts Morse, throwing his hands up. The biro flies out violently from behind his ear with the motion, clattering onto the worn-down carpet and rolling into a corner. 

“Yes, Morse. I agreed. You pass your sergeant’s, we can look again.”

“I thought you trusted me!” Thursday can hear the heart in the words, and they cut like razors against his skin. But he’s been a copper for more than thirty years; his skin is tougher than leather. 

“This isn’t about trust. It’s about what’s best for the Force. It’s about bringing you on as a proper officer, not just my…”

“Pet,” spits out Morse, bitterly. “Is that what I’ve been? What you’ve seen?”

“You know better,” replies Thursday, heavily. 

For a moment they stand, silently staring at one another in the tiny flat. Morse’s shoulders are rising and falling with his rage, his eyes still blazing. He’s impossibly beautiful when he’s angry – just as he is when he’s hurt, or proud, or petulant. It’s only Win’s place in his heart that keeps Thursday from reaching out to him. Keeps him anchored, as it always does. 

“I’ll never not look out for your interests, lad,” he says eventually, in a softer tone. “We’ll get past this. _You’ll_ get past this.”

Morse meets his eyes for a moment before turning to pick up the dropped biro. He tucks it back behind his ear, fingers slipping through his silken hair. “Do you want me to drive you home?” Morse offers. 

“That’s alright.” He doesn’t want Morse going back to the nick tonight to return the car, not after this news. The lad deserves to be on his own, deserves the chance to make his peace. “I’ll manage on my own.” 

Morse sighs, running a hand through his hair. His heart-aching beauty fades, hidden behind a sudden gawky twist of his shoulders and duck of his head. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow, sir.”

“Tomorrow,” promises Thursday, and sees himself out.

  
***

The house smells of lamb and mint jelly when he finally gets home. Thursday deposits his keys on the hall stand and hangs up his coat and hat, just in time to receive Win’s kiss. From her place by his side she reaches up to straighten his hat on its hook, brushing past him with a waft of jasmine and cinnamon perfume. That done, she turns to give him a warm smile.

“We’ve already eaten; I kept something warm for you.”

He gives her an affectionate look. “Right now all I want’s to sit down and put my feet up.”

“Long day?” she accompanies him down the hall to the den, her hand resting lightly on his back. Caring for Morse has made him more aware of physical proximity, of the warmth and reassurance a simple touch can bring.

“A hard one,” he answers, letting Win shepherd him onto the sofa and draw over the footstool. He seats himself heavily, sofa creaking beneath his weight, and leans his head back to rest against the top of the cushion. 

“What’s happened?” asks Win, softly. Thursday’s eyes flash to the ceiling and she answers his unspoken question: “Joan’s out with friends; Sam’s upstairs swotting.”

“It’s Morse,” he says eventually, still staring up at the ceiling, eyes looking into the distance now. In his mind’s eye he sees Morse, a whirlwind of anger and betrayal; he sighs. “He’s been kicked to the kerb; knocked back to general duties. Jakes will take his place as bagman.”

“What on Earth for?” asks Win, surprised.

“For not knowing when to keep his mouth shut,” replies Thursday immediately. Then, more slowly: “He can be so superior, so full of himself – he puts backs up without even realising he’s doing it.”

Win leans up against him, resting her head on his shoulder. “Well of course he has a haughty streak. He’s spent his life with all eyes being on him – knowing that everyone can’t help but watch him; can’t help but _want_ him. What can you expect?” 

“That’s as may be, but he has to learn otherwise if he’s to get anywhere. Especially under Bright. The man’s a stickler for rules and regs; he has no time for DCs who show up their betters. Even worse, ones who do it without any proper police work to back them. You know Morse – it’s all intuitive leaps and associations, not witness statements and pounding the pavement.”

“Is this permanent?” asks Win.

Thursday lowers his gaze to stare at the dark telly; he catches sight of himself in the curved glass of its screen, a small figure in a wide room. “Until Morse makes sergeant. He doesn’t have much ambition, God knows if he ever will.”

“He wants to work with you. He will.”

Thursday stays silent; Win turns to look at him. “Fred?”

“I’m not sure that he still trusts me. He feels betrayed; I agreed to the demotion and he knows it. I don’t know that he’ll get over it, not in the short run.”

“Oh, love. The two of you are like peas in a pod. He’ll get over it. He knows how fond you are of him – how could he not? You prove it to him twice a week.” Win sits up, pressing his arm briefly before standing. “Why don’t I fetch you some supper? You’ll feel better with a warm meal inside you.”

He looks up at her and smiles. “Thanks pet.” 

Thursday watches affectionately as she slips out into the kitchen, then stands himself, stretching his back. He follows her out into the hallway, and wonders what tomorrow will bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morse is listening to La Traviata, _Un di, felice, eterea_.


	9. Sweet Chariot (Part 1)

The sun wakes him early. His curtains are thin damask, which look elegant but let in copious amounts of light through the delicate weave. Jakes turns over, briefly burying his head in his pillow, before groaning and rising. There’s no point putting it off; now that he’s awake he won’t find sleep again so easily. 

He fills the kettle and puts it on the cooker before going out to fetch his newspaper. Any copper who intends to get anywhere in life reads the morning paper; it can hold any amount of information which may be pertinent to an investigation. 

This morning, his rigour is unexpectedly rewarded. He unfolds the paper and stares at it blankly for a moment, before his mouth twists upward in surprised glee.

The photo on the front page is of Morse, wide doe-like eyes staring directly into the camera. He looks painfully lovely, the play of light and shadows over his smooth skin heightening the curve of his high cheekbones and the gentle wave of his hair. It’s still not enough to detract from the shock plastered across his face, so florid his expression is nearly comical.

Above the snap is the headline, _Songbird Raises His Voice_ , accompanied by an article detailing a recent performance of a local choral group and their newest member, a constable who also happens to be a songbird. Jakes’ eye skims down the contents of their recital: Bach, Handel, Orff. Morse, the classical choir-boy. 

Morse will never live this one down. 

Not if Jakes has anything to do with it.

  
***

Now that he’s driving Thursday in the mornings, Jakes always arrives at the office after the songbird. It’s not a problem; he simply waits for Morse to leave his desk to fetch himself a cup of tea from the canteen, then casually lays the copy of the _Mail_ on the desk, photo upmost. He sees the other men in the office taking note, smiles at the whispers and elbow-jabs among them. By the time Morse returns, Jakes is back sitting nonchalantly at his desk, smoking a fag and doing some typing.

Morse sits down just as his eyes skim over his desk; he freezes stiff-backed as he sees the paper staring up at him – sees the photo of his own shocked face. Then in one furious movement he grabs the paper and shoves it down into the waste paper basket. On the other side of the glass partition, someone snickers. Morse gives the room at large a furious, indignant glare; no one is watching him now. At least, not overtly. 

There would have been at least a morningful of gloating to be had from that paper, if Thursday hadn’t come out of his office looking grim. “We’ve had a call out. Dead body hanging from a tree in South Park. Jakes, you drive. Morse, we might need the extra help; you come along too.” 

They both rise and follow him out of the office, studiously ignoring each other.

  
***

South Park is a five minute drive from Cowley Station; it borders Cowley to the north, splitting it off from Headington. The park is about half a mile long, a wide expanse of grass peppered here and there with towering beeches and wide ashes.

A PC meets them at the edge of the park and walks them across; the grass is sodden with spring rain, even under the bright morning sun. He leads them to a stand of ashes, guiding them through it until suddenly they round one and find themselves facing the body.

It hangs from a thick branch like some sort of horrific warning. The patent-leather shoes dangle two feet off the ground, the body limp and lifeless as a marionette. Beside it toppled on the ground is a light-weight wooden crate, the sort used for shipping fruit. Doctor DeBryn is already there, standing on a folding step ladder to examine the corpse. A series of wooden planks have been laid on the ground to facilitate access while protecting the ground below for the time when the hunt for footprints begins. 

Beside Jakes Morse recoils, turning away sharply, head bowed at an awkward angle to break his line of sight with the corpse. Jakes rolls his eyes and turns his face upwards to examine it more closely. 

The dead man is young – perhaps not even twenty, although the dead often look young. He has raven-dark hair cut messily, a very slim build, and a fresh, handsome face. Which even Jakes knows is wrong – hanging victims usually have bloated, swollen faces with protruding eyes and lips. 

“He can’t’ve hanged himself,” says Jakes, now considering the well-cut suit the corpse is wearing, and the well-polished shoes. On the step-ladder, the pathologist pats the body’s pockets, and comes up empty. 

“Why’s that, then?” asks Thursday, giving him a thoughtful glance. Testing him.

“Look at him – he’s all wrong. Generally hanging victims look like bloaters… He looks more like he died in his bed.”

“Of course he does,” says Morse, turning back towards the body and fixing his eyes on Jakes instead of it. “He’s a songbird.”

Jakes feels his eyebrows arc upwards. “Friend of yours, is he?” he asks. 

“No. I don’t know him. But it’s plain enough. You can check his wrist if you don’t believe me.”

“Doctor,” says Thursday; DeBryn nods and leans out to shake free the silver chain from the corpse’s cuff, one tiny shimmering link of which had been visible, and how the hell had Morse seen that when he was so busy staring at the grass?

“Lord Preston Henley,” reads DeBryn, the silver pendant affixed to the bracelet resting in his gloved palm. “Judging from this and the lack of post-mortem distention, I would have to agree with Morse’s statement. He was a songbird. I can confirm definitely after the autopsy.” 

“Who’s this Lord Preston?” asks Jakes. 

“Local nob,” answers Thursday absently, staring up at the corpse. “Family home is over by Beckley. He was up at Oxford a few years ago, ran up some charges that disappeared quietly.”

Morse glances over to Thursday. “What kind of charges?” 

“The kind he wouldn’t’ve been be piling up if he’d had a songbird in those days. Must be a recent acquisition.”

“Judging by the age of the deceased, that’s likely. He couldn’t have come of age more than two years ago,” confirms DeBryn, stepping down from the ladder and pulling out his notebook and a pencil to begin jotting down notes as he speaks. “Estimated time of death is yesterday evening; he’s been here overnight; fortunately the crows haven’t gotten at him yet.”

In his peripheral vision, Jakes sees Morse shudder. It’s the slight, delicate movement of a leaf in the wind, which makes Jakes even less sympathetic. 

“Cause?” asks Thursday, shortly.

“Indications are consistent with strangulation. Whether by this rope or another, I can’t be sure until I get him down and examine the bruising more closely.”

The rest of the scene of crime team are beginning to appear; photographers, forensics, coroner’s men. They skirt around the edge of the scene like carrion birds awaiting an opportunity to land. 

“We’ll need your report as soon as you can get it,” Thursday tells the pathologist, eyes on the body. It’s rotating gently in the wind, an eerie movement in something dead.

“Right you are.”

“Suppose we’ll have to speak to Henley. Jakes, you’re with me. Morse, stay and find out what forensics makes of the scene.”

Morse gives Thursday a bland look, but nods. They leave him standing in the corpse’s shadow, staring off between the trees.

  
***

As they run up towards Beckley, Jakes can’t help but notice the vibrancy of nature bursting forth at every opportunity: branches are heavy with flower, the hedgerows are thick with young leaves, and the grass is lush and verdant and speckled with the bright faces of daisies and buttercups. Birds dart across the sky, squirrels twitter in the trees, a lazy bumblebee gets momentarily caught up beneath the Jag’s windscreen wipers before buzzing off on its business. The sunny day is thrumming with life, all beautiful and perfect.

It’s a grim juxtaposition to the corpse they just left hanging from a tree. 

“The drive should be around here somewhere,” says Thursday, providing directions. On the right the hedgerow cuts out suddenly and on the crest of a green meadow Jakes catches sight of a Roman-style house, startlingly white against the blue sky. He whistles. 

“His nibs does alright for himself,” he says, slowing down in anticipation of the gate. Sure enough it comes up and he has to stop the car to open it; in wealthier days, he imagines there would have been a man to do it. 

The drive up to the house takes a circuitous route past some out-houses and a long building that looks to once have housed the coaches. There are signs of modernisation in the new doors and in the power line running out to the corner of the former coach-house. 

Jakes stops the car on the gravel drive by the stairs leading up to the front stoop, a wide patio-like arrangement sheltered under a roof supported by stone pillars. 

_This_ , thinks Jakes, _is the kind of coop where a songbird belongs._ Not a tiny, grimy bed-sit looking out over a disreputable alley. He shoots a covert glance at Thursday; the man seems unruffled by the grandeur of the house. 

Together they mount the stone stairs to the front stoop; Jakes lets Thursday knock. The door is opened almost immediately by a woman in a no-nonsense black dress, her hair pinned smartly up and her shoes practically low-heeled. “May I help you?”

“Detective Inspector Thursday and Detective Sergeant Jakes, here to see Lord Preston,” says Thursday. The woman’s eyebrows rise, but otherwise she remains unaffected.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No. It’s important we speak with him; it’s in connection with a recent death.”

“Please wait here.” She motions them into the hallway and then departs, clicking away across the marble floor. 

Jakes has worked hard to cultivate an air of effortless ease, and with some of the things he’s seen, he’s had enough practice to make it unshakable. But the truth is places like this make his skin crawl. He learned young that it’s the rich who get up to unspeakable things on the backs of the poor and he can’t imagine the secrets this place, with its marble floors and oak-paneled walls, holds. Above, a crystal chandelier pours down rainbow-streaked light; he twists his lip grimly. 

The maid – undoubtedly her role, whatever her title may be – returns to direct them to the study. It’s a long room with a massive desk and wing-backed chair sitting in pride of place at the sunnier end; behind it is mounted a tall oil portrait of an older man in a grey suit staring down over the room. Head of the family, Jakes imagines, always watching over his affairs.

On the blotter lies a copy of the _Mail_ face-up; Morse stares up at them from the page.

From somewhere in the distance comes the sound of whistling, a lively tune that’s soft and breathy, hardly audible; it’s accompanied by the slow click of leather shoes. Jakes recognizes it from some of the music that’s been coming out of the States of late; it has the sound of a hymn, but the vibrancy of a celebration. Swing Low, Sweet Chariot. 

He turns to watch their guest join them from around the corner; the man who steps out is tall – taller than him, taller than Thursday – and impeccably dressed in a blazer and cravat, with linen slacks that hold a razor-crisp crease. The face isn’t quite handsome, but it has charisma, the attraction of a man who’s spent his life being admired. 

“Lord Preston Henley,” he says, holding out his hand to shake. Introductions follow, crisply from Thursday, laconically from Jakes. “Somehow I was expecting a more glamorous visitor,” he says, eyes slanting down to the paper and back again with a slightly mocking smile. 

Thursday doesn’t take the bait. “We’re here about a death, Lord Preston,” he says, in a flat, bland tone that fails to convey his thoughts on the matter.

The nob’s eyebrows rise, smile fading. “Oh yes? Whose?”

“We found a body in South Park this morning. He was wearing a bracelet with your name on it.”

Henley’s face clouds over sharply. “Huw,” he says, passing a hand over his face. 

“My lord?” 

“My songbird. Huw Rees.” He closes his eyes, sighs. “How did the accident happen?”

“Accident?” repeats Thursday, evenly. His expression gives nothing away. Jakes watches the conversation impassively; in a house of this stature, the ranking officer leads the interviews. He has his notebook out to record any answers of significance. 

Henley looks up, grey eyes flashing. They give his face a lightness under his thick mop of brown hair, catch attention like a shilling glinting in the sun. “Huw was perfectly healthy – if it wasn’t an accident…”

“He was found hanged,” says Thursday. 

“Hanged?” demands Henley, voice sharp now. “You mean he killed himself? I don’t believe it; why would he –”

“I didn’t say suicide, my lord. We’re waiting for more information before we make that determination.”

Henley stares at Thursday incredulously. It’s a similar expression to the one on the face of his ancestor in the oil painting behind him. “Well what else could it be? Huw had no enemies – the idea of – of _murder_ – is preposterous.”

Thursday appears unfazed. “When did you last see Huw?” he asks, shifting his weight to one side.

Henley stares back for a minute, before shrugging. He circles around behind the desk and seats himself, folding his hands on the table in a gesture of calm. “Yesterday. He went to town in the afternoon.”

“Why was that?”

“He wanted to buy some records. He liked music.”

“Classical?” asks Jakes, pencil hovering over the page, unable to help himself. Henley turns his sharp eyes on him, mouth tracing a grim line.

“Rock.”

“How did he travel?” asks Thursday, ignoring the interruption.

“By bicycle.”

Jakes feels his eyebrows drift upwards. There hadn’t been a bicycle within sight of the corpse. Or any albums either, for that matter. He makes a note; one more thing for uniform to check on. Uniform, and Morse. 

“And how did he seem?”

“Himself, just as usual. Huw was an optimist, inspector. He had a perfect situation here: all the pleasures of life to enjoy, at his beck and call.” _My pleasures_ , goes unspoken, but it’s plain enough to see in his eyes; the man is practically leering. Jakes feels his jaw locking, mind flashing back to the young man hanging dead from the tree. Whatever had happened to him, he hadn’t enjoyed it.

“Just as you say, my lord, no regrets,” replies Thursday, flatly. 

Henley’s eyes narrow. “No. None. He was well kept. You’ve seen the house, the grounds. Do you doubt it?”

“Not for me to say, my lord. But we’d like to take a shufti at his room.”

Henley stands. “Ginette will show you. You’ll find her in the hall. And Inspector?” he waits for Thursday to meet his eyes, posture predatory. “If someone _did_ murder Huw, I expect to see them punished for it.”

Thursday inclines his head, walking the line between distant and sycophant. “We’ll get to the truth of it, one way or another.”

  
***

Ginette is, of course, the maid from before; she greets them again and tells them Huw’s room is upstairs. As they mount the stairwell – an elegant wooden semi-circle that flares at the bottom and is carpeted in a lovely navy speckled with white flowers – Jakes imagines the space. He pictures something spacious but sparsely furnished; an elegant desk with narrow, curved legs and an ornate chair, a bed with tapestry curtains, a set of white French windows opening onto a Juliette balcony.

So when Ginette opens the door, Jakes can only stare. The room beyond is what he would expect of a first-year student, away from home and parental supervision for the first time and eager to spread his personality to its limits. Posters of famous bands line the walls, coloured paper Chinese lanterns hang from the ceiling in gay lines, a guitar hangs from a stand in the corner. There are clothes hung up on the floor, as his mum would have said, and shoes peeking out from underneath the solid wooden bedstead. There’s an adjoining door set in the wall to the right, just beyond the foot of the bed.

“He was just a kid,” says Jakes quietly, and for some reason the realisation hurts. Whether it’s because he’s by now lying dead in the hospital mortuary, or because he lived his life as a rich man’s play-thing, Jakes isn’t sure.

Somehow it’s different than Morse, who’s proud and scrappy and morose by turns. This room speaks to him of vulnerability, and of exploitation.

Jakes hands twist into fists, fingernails cutting into his palms. 

“Yes. He was,” agrees Thursday, sifting through a pile of records. “And when we get back to the nick you can ring up Somerset House and find out exactly how long he’d been here, living this perfect life.” His tone is acidic, his face angry. “Where does that go?” he adds, looking up at the door in the wall. 

Jakes walks over to it and gives it a try. “Locked from the other side. No lock this side.”

“Not allowed to say no,” says Thursday darkly. 

They spent a few more minutes going through the boy’s things, but turn up nothing useful. Just a transistor radio, a few car magazines, and a newspaper with local touring dates for The Yardbirds circled. More proof that they’re dealing with a youth. 

As if Jakes needed it.

They leave quietly, shown out by Ginette, and pile back into the car.

“Henley was awfully quick to adapt to Huw’s death,” says Jakes, letting the clutch out. They drive back past the coach-house and down towards the gates, gravel crunching beneath the tyres. 

“Not the type to be flustered by much,” replies Thursday. His tone is terse, expression pinched, and Jakes realises that he’s still angry. Very much so. “If you were a young lad keen on rock and roll, going into town on a bicycle to buy an album, would you wear your best suit?” he asks, after a minute.

Jakes turns his mind back to the body, to the well-cut, perfectly tailored suit adorning it. “Maybe he had a uniform, part of his duties.”

“Maybe.”

They drive in silence for several minutes, returning to the main roads and into Oxford. 

“Think the lad offed himself to get away from it?” asks Jakes, as they draw up to a stop light. Thursday doesn’t look at him, continues staring out through the windscreen.

“Time will tell.”

  
***

The day is full of the usual frenetic activity that accompanies a possibly suspicious death. Jakes looks into Huw Rees’ background and finds he was raised in Cardiff before coming into Henley’s possession a year and a half ago, at age 18.

“They start ‘em young,” comments Dutton, waiting to give an update on the search of the surrounding area. Jakes makes a nondescript noise of assent, suddenly keenly aware that he would have made the comment himself, before seeing the dead boy and his room. “The PCs turned up some footprints mashed into the mud, but there were plenty in the area; nice little lovers’ rendezvous, what with the weather turned fine and all.”

“Any sign of a bicycle?”

“None. Nothing but the songbird in his tree.”

“Right.” Jakes produces a cigarette and lights it, watching the smoke rise in thin curls. Dutton gives him an unimpressed look and slinks off, hands in his pockets. 

Jakes puts his lighter back down on his desk, and in its reflection catches Morse looking at him. By the time he looks up, the songbird is staring down at his papers.

  
***

DeBryn comes by late in the afternoon, his briefcase in one hand, his step prim as usual. Thursday glances at Jakes through the glass and the DS stands to join them in the inspector’s office; Morse drifts in almost as an afterthought.

“Cause of death was strangulation, all indications match the rope that was around his neck. There were no signs of struggle.”

“So he did it to himself,” says Jakes, with an odd sinking feeling in his gut. Coppers should have no room in their hearts to be pitying suicides – once they started, they’d never stop. But this one feels different. Feels like an echo of a song he knows. 

“Not necessarily. There were also indications that he had been bound. Songbirds don’t bruise easily, so it’s difficult to tell when or for how long. But it’s possible his hands were tied when he died. I also found traces of a sticky residue around his mouth. Duct tape, most likely. There some time.”

“He was bound and gagged, then strangled. And finally hung to look like suicide,” says Thursday slowly, in a heavy tone.

“That would appear to be the case. I am comfortable ruling this a homicide.”

“But it’s not,” says Morse, in a tone sharp as a broken mirror. They all look to him and he stares back furiously, shoulders high and stiff. “It’s destruction of property.”

There’s a long, ugly silence. Thursday breaks it from behind his desk, looking straight at Morse: “We’ll catch whoever it was regardless, Morse.”

“Mary Richardson got 6 months for the Rokeby Venus. How long will this one get? A year? Five?”

Thursday stares back evenly. “That’s not up to us.”

Morse turns away, dragging his hands roughly through his hair. After a moment the pathologist speaks, pulling a matchbook from his pocket.

“I found this among his effects. It was the only thing that stood out. Thought you might want it.”

The matchbook is printed with an emblem, The Rookery. It’s a club in south Cowley, and not a reputable one. Morse spins around to snatch it out of DeBryn’s hand, flipping it open to stare at the matches as though they contain some vast secret.

“That would explain his suit,” says Jakes. “If he was there last night…”

“I’ll go,” says Morse, looking up fiercely. 

Thursday leans back in his chair, silently considering. Finally he nods, slowly. “Very well. Best wait a while; they’ll not be in this early.”

“I’ll go tonight; better chance to see the locals.”

“Fine.”

 _Even on general duties, he still gets his way,_ thinks Jakes, sourly.

  
***

Morse is still there when he and Thursday leave for the night, pecking away slowly at his typewriter. And doubtless he’ll be there again in the morning when they get in.

Only the next morning when they roll in from the motor pool, Morse’s desk is empty.


	10. Sweet Chariot (Part 2)

Morse’s desk is clear, his chair pushed in under the desk and the coatrack empty. Thursday glances across the room and catches Eastman’s eye. “Morse been in this morning?”

“Haven’t seen him, sir,” replies the DS, shaking his head. 

“Maybe he overslept,” suggests Jakes. Before the comment would have come with an image of Morse lazing in silk sheets, stretched out to displaying skin flushed from sleep. But he’s seen Morse’s flat; the idea of anyone choosing to spend more time than necessary there is hard to fathom. 

Thursday frowns. “Ring his flat.” He continues into his office while Jakes takes a seat and rings through to Dispatch to get Morse’s number. But when he calls, there’s no answer: the phone goes on ringing until he hangs up. 

Jakes gets up and goes to the office door; Thursday has taken a seat but hasn’t opened any of his folders, is sitting watching for him. “No answer, sir,” he says, voice carefully neutral.

Thursday glances at the clock on his mantle, Jakes following his gaze. It’s not yet gone half eight. “We’ll give him some time yet,” he says; Jakes nods and returns to his desk.

But by nine, Morse still hasn’t arrived. Jakes looks up just as outside the bells of Oxford begin tolling the hour; Thursday is coming out of his office. “Come along,” he says, and heads for the door. Jakes snatches up his coat and follows.

  
***

Thursday drives; a breach of protocol, or at least of the usual hierarchy: it’s a DI’s privilege to be driven. He speeds through two amber lights on the way to Morse’s flat, taking corners fast and close. He doesn’t bother locking the car when they stop by the kerb, just slams the door behind him and marches quickly up to the front door.

He has keys, of course. Why wouldn’t he: it’s his flat – his songbird. The hallway smells of rancid milk; someone must have dropped a bottle some days ago without bothering to mop up. Upstairs the air is cleaner; they hurry along the dingy corridor to Morse’s door.

Thursday knocks once perfunctorily; there’s no answer. He already has the key in his hands; with one twist of the lock the door’s open and they’re in.

In the dark, Morse’s room looks sinister, light filtering in through the undrawn curtains, socks and ties lying on the floor and empty glasses littering the table. Thursday strides in and fumbles around for the lamps before finding them and switching them on. In the stark light that pours down from under the ugly fringes, the whole sorry picture of Morse’s life is clearly painted. Stacks of books on poetry and Regency era fiction, newspapers folded to the crossword section, and records of classical music and opera. A messy, unmade bed. A dead plant. 

He already knew it was no fancy boudoir, but the disarray still stuns him. Thursday seems unmoved by it; the inspector stalks through the tiny flat, poking about in the kitchen, on the table, at the bed.

“No way to know if he was here last night,” he determines after a few minutes. “If he was here this morning, he didn’t shave,” he adds, running a finger over the dry plughole in the sink; a cut-throat razor sits folded in a cup on the porcelain rim. 

“I can check with the neighbours,” suggests Jakes. It’s Thursday he’s making the effort for, not Morse. For all they know the songbird had a skin-full and went home with someone, and was too ashamed to skulk in in the morning. Ashamed, or afraid. Songbirds don’t sleep outside their beds; they’re worth too much to give themselves away. Disloyalty brings a heavy penalty, and often a bill of sale to a rougher keeper – one who knows how to handle recalcitrant pets. 

It’s not a theory he can very well propose to Thursday. Not now, when he looks broken by the empty flat. He must be besotted with his pet to care so much; it’s a weakness Jakes can’t understand, far less condone. 

“We’ll send a PC over to do it,” answers Thursday, heading for the door.

“And us?”

“We’re going to see Joey Higgins.”

  
***

Joey Higgins, Thursday tells him in the car, is the owner of The Rookery, as well as of a photography business that’s had its wrist slapped under the Obscene Publications Act, and a few back-room card games.

“He’s a country boy with a chip on his shoulder and a big appetite,” is how Thursday puts it as they draw up to the bungalow that is Higgins’ private home, a long brick building with a gently-slanted roof featuring skylights and brand new roof slats. The front garden is entirely dedicated to thick green grass, cut through by a stone slab pathway leading to the front door. 

The door is opened by a tall, leggy blonde in a short smock dress that displays her ample assets. She has a pretty face accented by well-applied makeup; gold earrings dangle from her ears. “Who’re you?” she demands, in a shrill tone. 

“DI Thursday, DS Jakes,” says Thursday, polite but firm. “Here to see Joey.”

She turns and shouts, “ _Joey_ ,” into the house, then walks away, leaving them standing on the stoop. Jakes glances at Thursday, who steps into the hallway and waits there. The interior of the house has thick shag carpeting, with abstract pieces of artwork standing on the floor – a chrome bar forming an upwards arc, a towering construction of rectangle stones, a harp-like piece made of wood and wires. 

Jakes wonders if any of it is meant to mean anything; it certainly doesn’t to him.

Joey Higgins emerges from the back of the house nearly two minutes after the girl called him. He’s in his forties with a short, stout bulldog frame and a pudgy face. He’s wearing a housecoat over a pair of pyjama trousers; his eyes land immediately on Thursday and stay there. 

“Fred Thursday. What’s so important you have to get me out of my nice warm bed at the crack of dawn?” he asks, straightening his robe.

Then Thursday is stepping forward, suddenly looming threateningly, face black. In the space of a second it’s no longer a polite interview they’re here for, but a hostile interrogation. “One of my lads was asking questions down your club last night, Joey. Funnily enough, he didn’t turn up this morning. I’ll ask once: where is he?” 

“Now how would I know that? Any of your nice lads are welcome in my establishment; some of them don’t even bother announcing themselves.”

“Don’t kid a kidder, Joey. We both know you can smell a copper from a mile away. Regardless, you’d have noticed him. He’s in another class altogether: one that doesn’t usually frequent hovels like yours.”

Higgins raises his eyebrows in over-acted surprise. “Oh, you mean the songbird. Why didn’t you say?” He leans to the side, casually propping himself up against the doorframe that opens into the sitting room beyond. “I did hear about him. But I wasn’t on the floor last night. If you want more, you’ll have to talk to Lovett, the bartender.”

“Simple as that, is it?” growls Thursday, low and dangerous.

Higgins spreads his hands, manner relaxed but eyes watchful. “Sure. Always happy to help out the rozzers.”

“And where can I find him, this bartender?”

Higgins gives the man’s address, a block of flats in East Cowley near the cinema. 

Thursday remains standing with his hands fisted, projecting an air of tightly coiled power. “I’ll go talk to this man of yours, Joey. If I don’t find proof my lad left your club on his own two feet last night, I’ll be back here. And the next time I walk through that door, I won’t be so polite.” Thursday spins on his heels and marches out, slamming the door open; Jakes follows, not bothering to shut it behind them.

  
***

They drive in silence, Thursday hunched low over the wheel, the brim of his trilby shadowing his face.

Jakes has heard enough stories to know that his threats to Higgins weren’t idle. Thursday plays by the old rules, and first and foremost among them is to hit back twice as hard for any offense given. A missing copper means broken teeth and blood stains on the pavement. And that’s before taking into account the specifics of this case, before considering that it’s Thursday’s name around Morse’s neck. Thursday’s responsibility to keep him safe. 

Thursday who might lose not only his former bagman, but his most prized possession. 

Jakes sets his jaw and stares out the window, counting down the minutes until their next confrontation.

  
***

There are multiple buzzers on Lovett’s building, each labelled in a careful hand. Thursday presses the one marked with the bartender’s name, ringing it repeatedly.

It’s nearly a minute before the man comes to the door. His clothes are wrinkled and clearly hastily-donned, his hair uncombed. “The hell do you want?” he demands, yanking the door open and standing furiously in the doorway. 

“Oxford City Police,” says Thursday, taking a step forwards so fast that the man falls back, losing some of his aplomb. “Mr Lovett?” 

The bartender shrugs, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “What of it?”

Thursday tilts his hat back, revealing his stony face. “We’re here for information. An officer visited the club last night conducting an investigation.” He cuts the words out like a saw slicing through stone, each hard and terse. 

“Sure – the songbird. So?”

“That’s the last time anyone laid eyes on him.”

“Maybe he found someone to take him home. Show him some love.”

In the skin of a second, Thursday has slammed Lovett up into the foyer wall, pinning him there tightly. “Maybe you know where he is,” he growls, tightening his grip. 

“You’re barking – I’ve no idea where the little sod got to. Last I saw he was chatting up some blokes. Next time I looked, he was gone. Like I said – maybe he found what he was looking for. Or who.” He sneers.

Thursday pulls him away from the wall, only to slam him back against it, hard. Lovett’s head snaps up and he curses, fighting now. It’s no use; Thursday’s grip is strong as steel.

“Who was he talking to?”

“I don’t know.”

“ _Who?_ ” barks Thursday, grinding his palms into Lovett’s shoulders. Jakes steps forwards, raisings his fist; he sees Lovett’s eyes dart from Thursday to him, so wide the irises are ringed with white.

“Some regulars. Bronski and Evans. He was asking them about the other one.”

Thursday relaxes his grip slightly, giving Lovett space to breathe. “What other one?”

“The other songbird. The one who’s been hanging around making sheep’s eyes at the lads.”

Thursday releases him abruptly and steps back, letting him stumble. 

“ _Christ_ ,” he spits, raising an arm to loosen his shirt collar which Thursday’s pressure kept hitched up against his throat. 

“Tell me about this other songbird,” orders Thursday.

“Dark hair, grey eyes, Welsh accent. Like I said, he comes in looking for someone to take him home. Sometimes he leaves alone, sometimes not. Should’a thrown him out, but the boss said he was good for business. Everyone wants to think they have a chance with a songbird. But the truth is, all they bring is trouble.” He glares at Thursday, making his point.

“Looks like he brought it on himself,” says Jakes. “He’s dead,” he adds, at Lovett’s look.

“Can’t say I’m surprised. Songbirds aren’t made to be shared.”

“Any of your regulars likely to feel the same?” asks Thursday.

“Your pal was talking to them.”

Thursday crosses his arms, gaze very cold. “And where can we find them?”

“Wouldn’t know. I serve drinks, that’s all. You’re the coppers, finding them is your job.”

  
***

Back at the nick, Thursday gives him Dutton and Price to find the two men. There are dozens of Evans on the electoral register, but only two Bronskis – father and son, both living in Cowley at the same address. Neither has a local record, no history with the police.

While Jakes is looking into it, Thursday closets himself with Bright. He comes out looking grimmer, footsteps heavier on the old lino. “Find what you need?” he asks, coming to a stop in front of Jakes’ desk. 

The sergeant nods, “We’ve got a line on Bronski, sir. A father and son, not sure which might be our bloke. Both at the same address, down by the GMC factories. ”

“Good.” He looks around and catches Eastman’s eye and gives a sharp nod of his head; the sergeant rises and hurries over. “I want a door-to-door run in Morse’s building, see if anyone saw or heard him last night or this morning.”

“Yes, sir.” 

“When you’ve done that, get onto DeBryn. Anything more he’s got – I want him to go over all his findings. Got it?” he demands, already moving towards the door.

“Yes, sir.”

“Right. Jakes, with me.”

  
***

The Bronskis live together in a flat over a car repair business, _Bronski Repairs_. Thursday and Jakes step in to find one corner of the open space acting as a store, crammed full of bottles of oil, lubricant, hoses, wipers and towering stacks of wheels; the two bays beyond are taken up by a battered Morris and a sleek Austin Healey. There’s a smell of grease and the oily scent of brake fluid. No one’s in sight, but when Thursday rings the bell on the counter an older man in a blue jumpsuit appears from behind one of the cars. He wipes his hands on a cloth as he walks over, glancing out the window to take in the Jag.

“What I can do you for?” he asks, in heavily-accented English. 

“We’re looking for Mr Bronski.”

“That is I. You are who?”

“We’re with the police. Were you drinking down at The Rookery last night?” 

The older man’s face turns to a puzzled frown. “The Rookery? I do not drink there – it is for young men.”

“Your son then, maybe?” suggests Jakes. 

“That, maybe. Jurek!” he calls. From the far side of the shop there’s the sound of something metallic hitting the cement floor, followed by muffled cursing. A young man with dark hair and grease smudges on his face gets up from under the Morris. He pauses at the sight of Thursday and Jakes but walks over all the same. His face has a belligerent cast to it, brows thick and heavy.

“Yeah?”

“Police,” says Thursday, in a steady, even tone. “Were you drinking down The Rookery last night?”

He slips his hands in his pocket, weight slanted carelessly to one side. “So what if I was?” he drawls. Behind him his father watches silently, eyes sharp. 

“Did you speak with an officer? A man named Morse? He’s about 5’10”, red hair, blue –”

Bronski interrupts lazily. “The songbird,” he says, in the tone that suggests he’s conscientiously removing the slurs from his speech. “Sure. I talked to him – as much of a conversation as you can have with one of them. What of it?”

“What time was this?” asks Thursday, still in the same even tone. Whatever excitement he may be feeling, he doesn’t show an ounce of it. Jakes watches silently, waiting.

“Nine? Half past? Couldn’t say for sure.”

“What did he ask you about?”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“I’m asking you,” returns Thursday, sharp as a blow.

Bronski looks from Thursday to his father, then gives a loud huff. “Let’s go outside; it’s too goddamn stuffy in here.” He pushes out the front door, Thursday and Jakes following him. His father watches from inside, face unreadable. 

Outside in the fresh April air, Bronski lights a cigarette, flicking the lighter lid open and closed. “The little prick was poking about after another songbird. The other one’s younger, and slyer. He comes in sometimes. Came,” he corrects himself, more slowly. “Heard he bought it the other night. I don’t know nothing about that – it wasn’t us he went home with,” he adds, as though the thought were unthinkable. 

Thursday gives him a hard look. “Who was it then?”

“Didn’t see,” says Bronski, sullenly. “It’s not my job to keep tabs on other men’s pets – especially ones who slip their leads. One minute he was there, the next he was gone. Either he found someone in a hurry, or someone found him. The way he carried on, it was no wonder. Everyone knew it was only a matter of time ‘til he got beaten down. Good riddance. We don’t need his kind drinking with us, turning heads only to land ‘em in court, or worse.”

It’s true, Jakes knows. The type of people rich enough to own a songbird are rich enough to sidestep the law and handle their problems in their own ways. And they’re not the type to forgive – or forget.

“Did you see Morse leave last night? The copper,” he clarifies sternly, in case Bronski’s forgotten who he’s speaking about. Or to.

Bronski shrugs, exhaling a line of smoke. “No. He was making the rounds alright, but eventually he got tired and quit. Like I said, sometime around nine or half past.”

“Did he leave with anyone?”

“Didn’t see.”

“Who were you with?” asks Jakes, sensing Thursday’s building frustration. 

“Jim Evans.”

“And where might we find him?” 

“Over at the GMC assembly line.” He raises the cigarette and takes a drag, then lets it out in a gust of smoke. “Do me a favour: don’t tell him I sent you.”

  
***

After wasting nearly an hour finding the correct building and convincing the foreman to pull Evans off the line, the interview with him turns out to be as useless as that with Bronski. He didn’t see who either Huw Rees or Morse left with on the two successive nights, if anyone. He’s if anything less precise than Bronski when it comes to time, although he’s equally hostile to songbirds.

“Maybe the two of them did it,” suggests Jakes as they drive back to the station. “Got tired of being passed over like rotten meat and decided to take it into their own hands.”

“Strangling a boy, maybe, but interfering with a copper? They don’t strike me as that bold.”

Jakes cocks his head to the side thoughtfully. “But if Morse spooked them…”

Thursday stares grimly out the window, hands fastened tightly over the steering wheel. “Tonight you’re going back to the club, sergeant, and I expect more statements as to who exactly Morse questioned, as well as Bronski and Evans’ whereabouts. You can take Strange with you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Quite plainly, no one’s going to make the mistake of sending a copper off alone again.

  
***

Jakes works late going over the reports from the door-to-door search and the other evidence that’s come in so far on the Rees case. But by the time Strange, dressed in a badly-fitting brown suit, comes to get him to leave for the club, Thursday’s light is still on.

The inspector is sitting at behind his desk with his back to the door. Smoke is rising from his pipe, a thick woody smell. 

“Sir?”

Thursday turns his head fractionally. His reflection shows in the window: he looks wound-up, frame tight and terse, face cut in a hard, uncompromising expression. “I want more than failed leads and pissing contests, sergeant,” he says, sharply. 

“Yes, sir. We’ll find anything there is to be found.”

“Good.”

  
***

The Rookery is a dark building with bricked-up windows and a black exterior. In the day it looks like an eyesore; at night with a red electric sign it draws in passers-by like fish to a lure.

They park around the block and walk, showing their warrant cards under the red light; it casts dark crimson shadows like bloodstains on the paper. The grunt on the door waves them in with a frown, then disappears after them – doubtless to tattle to his boss. 

Inside the lighting is low, overhead lights reflecting off the polished wood floor. The bar gleams like a pearl, glass shelves and long mirrors creating a warm effect. There’s a small group of couples dancing – it’s still early – and a larger crowd gathered around the bar, those too tired or thirsty to dance. 

Like a pair of sheepdogs, Jakes cuts in from one side while Strange cuts in from the other, weeding quickly through the crowd to find those who were in the club the night before. 

Jakes finds himself in a discussion with two men and a girl, the latter apparently happy to gossip about the handsome man who had been in asking questions the night before, and the other two willing to go along with it for her benefit. Yes, he had been asking about a songbird. No, they didn’t know him. No, they hadn’t seen him leave.

Jakes sighs and moves on. But it becomes clear that the few members of the group who remember Morse were too focused on their own activities to pay him much mind. A copper, even an attractive one, asking questions is a curiosity but not a source of much entertainment. Jakes works his way through the crowd, learning very little, until he arrives at the bar and sees Lovett standing on the opposite side, glowering at him. He pushes his way up to the long strip of polished wood, struggling to keep his balance in the tight-knit press of bodies. 

“Still looking for your lost songbird? Regular Bo-Peep, you are” says Lovett disinterestedly, as he pours a G&T and slides it across to a young woman in a bright yellow dress. 

“Remembered anything more?” asks Jakes, not bothering to suppress his irritation. “Missing coppers are bad for business; the sooner we find him, the sooner we disappear. Otherwise we might have to come back here every night. Might even have to start closing the doors.”

“If you’re looking for someone to shake down, try Higgins. I just pour the drinks.”

“Higgins can’t cut a cheque if there’s no money coming in,” answers Jakes, resting his hands on the bar and leaning forward. Lovett curls his lip.

“It was a scrum in here last night, just like it is every night. Look around you. You think I noticed one man leaving in the midst of all this?” He sweeps his hands to take in the noise and chaos of the crowd.

Jakes ignores the tight press around him, the smell of cigarette smoke, alcohol, perfume and sweat. “I think he’s a hard one to take your eyes off of,” he says, staring Lovett in the eye. Lovett breaks away first.

“He was here until quarter past nine. After that, I didn’t see him again. That’s all there is to it.” He turns away to take an order from a man leaning over the bar with coins in his hand. 

Jakes steps back, looking out across the crowd and trying to find Strange. He does eventually at the opposite side of the crowd in front of the bar, and elbows his way through until he meets up with the constable. “Anything?”

“Spoke to a few who remember Morse; one girl thinks he left after talking to her. But she couldn’t be sure he did, or that he was alone.”

“Perfect. Just ruddy perfect.”

  
***

On the return to the station Jakes runs back upstairs, just on the off chance that Thursday’s still there.

In the darkness of the CID office, the light from the inspector’s office shines brightly. Jakes comes up to the door to find him still sitting at his desk, now reading through a file of papers.

“Sir?” he says, working to keep the trepidation from his voice. 

Thursday’s head snaps up, eyes narrowing in concentration.

“We didn’t find anything, sir. Leastways, nothing conclusive. More witnesses who saw Morse there last night, one who thinks she was the last to talk to him. But no one who’s sure who he left with, if he did leave with someone.”

Thursday’s face tightens, and for a moment Jakes is sure he’s going to be bawled out for his failure. But instead the inspector stands, turning sharply to lean on the windowsill and look out into the dark night. 

“He’s out there somewhere,” he says, voice low.

“We’ll find him, sir,” says Jakes, for the sake of something to say.

“Tomorrow I want Uniform to start searches of parks and greenspace. If he was taken by the same man as Rees…” Thursday’s voice dries up.

“If he’d been killed and dumped we’d’ve found him by now,” says Jakes, with confidence he doesn’t feel. Oxford is full of places to hide a body, the county even more so. But it’s too early to give up, even if they are starting the corpse chase. 

“DeBryn said he’d have further results for us tomorrow. We start there.”

“Yes, sir.”

And so, although Jakes doesn’t remark on it at the time, ends day 1.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the interrogations nearly killed me. Next chapter will be more exciting!


	11. Sweet Chariot (Part 3)

Jakes wakes several times in the night, mind foggy with sleep, to lie staring at the shadows splashed against the walls in the inky darkness of his room. Like a crow circling a corpse, his thoughts keep coming back to the boy who died hanging from a tree in South Park, his pale face still elegant and serene in death. 

Beauty that transcends death – he’s seen it before, rarely. But this feels different. Feels like something inescapable, like a cage the dead boy was never free from. 

The last time he wakes, as dawn is just beginning to come over the horizon and creep in through his curtains, he sees the songbird hanging from the rope but it’s Morse’s voice in his head. _It’s not murder._

Songbirds are possessions, things to be owned and used and thrown out like rubbish. How many make it to old age – and what happens to those who do? He’s never wondered before, never seen songbirds as anything more than glamorous, frivolous toys – beyond his pocket, or even his imagination. 

Except for Morse, who has always seemed somehow defective. Happier to get his hands dirty among blue-collar coppers and the criminals they associate with than to recline on a sofa wearing bespoke suits with no purpose but to look exquisite. 

Happier to take all the risks of the job than to be used. 

Jakes turns over sharply, and buries his head in the pillow.

  
***

The phone rings the next morning while he’s waiting for the kettle to boil.

His memory and imagination combine to provide an image of Morse hanging from a tree, face pale and perfect in death. He runs a brisk hand through his hair, trying to push away the picture, before picking up the receiver. For some reason his heart is thrumming in his chest, his hand moist with sweat. “DS Jakes.”

“It’s Thursday. Don’t bother about fetching me this morning; I’ve made my own way in.” Even as an unwelcome wave of relief rushes over him Jakes is glancing at the clock; it’s half seven, an hour earlier than Thursday would usually get in. And he’s just been caught lollygagging at home, the kettle whistling cheerfully in the background.

“Right, sir. I’ll be there soon.”

Thursday hangs up without bothering to say goodbye. Jakes sighs, takes the kettle off the cooker, and resolves himself to breakfasting on tea and biscuits from the canteen. He grabs his tie and his coat and hurries out the door.

  
***

Jakes arrives at the office to find he’s not the only one who’s come in early. Half the CID is there, working away industriously at their desks in grim silence. The heavy atmosphere in the room tells him that no progress has been made, that they’re no closer to finding Huw’s killer, or Morse.

He’s hardly sat down before Eastman and Wilkins from Uniform are crowding the side of his desk, thirsting to review the search grids and assignments, to get boots on the ground. Someone’s taped a large map up to the glass partition, along with photographs of the dead songbird, and of Morse – the newspaper snap of him, clipped neatly from the page. 

It’s how he’ll be remembered if they don’t find him. That one last image, burned into their memories: inescapable, indelible. Morse’s genuinely stunned face, caught off-guard by something he didn’t see coming. The irony burns. 

Jakes turns from the photos to the map and starts to designate assignments.

  
***

He’s just returned from briefing Uniform downstairs to find DeBryn in the CID office, standing on the threshold to Thursday’s office talking to the inspector. With his soft-sided briefcase, bow tie and heavy fawn overcoat he looks out of place, to Jakes’ mind a picture of academia in the midst of a work space. He’s fastidiously neat, but in a slightly faded, country manor way. The mortuary, after all, is not the centre of society – even medical society.

Thursday looks over DeBryn’s shoulder to spot Jakes coming in through the doors and wave him over; the three of them step into Thursday’s office. The window has been cracked open, letting in a cool breeze to bring some freshness to the close office. 

“If there’s anything I can do to help,” the pathologist is saying, round face tight with concern behind his hornrims. Thursday takes his seat, motioning for the two of them to take the two chairs on the other side. Jakes waits for DeBryn to shrug off his coat and seat himself before stepping around the chair and sitting.

“We’ll let you know, doctor. For now, we need anything you can tell us about Huw Rees. Solve one mystery and hopefully we clear up both,” says Thursday, sitting upright and looking attentive.

“There’s not much to tell, I’m afraid. I ran the usual blood tests; nothing unusual. No trace of narcotics or alcohol – he was clear-headed at the end. I did take a closer look at the bruising on his wrists. I can’t be completely certain, given the vagaries of songbird physiology, but I would have thought he had been restrained for quite some time. Or, alternately, regularly over an ongoing period.”

“He was free to go to the club,” says Jakes, frowning. “He was there a few hours before his death.”

“There is such a thing as voluntary restraint,” notes DeBryn, eyebrows curved suggestively, expression blandly implying that he’s seen all types in his line. “A common practice in some circles.”

“The type to keep songbirds,” says Thursday, as though he weren’t one himself. Jakes glances at him but sees no sign of embarrassment there, no indication that Thursday means the remark personally. Or even understands it to be personally applicable. As if Morse weren’t his possession, required to do whatever was asked of him – in bed and out of it.

“That could be,” answers DeBryn. “Certainly it is common to those who practice more the more exotic forms of intercourse.”

It’s an utterly bizarre conversation to be having with two middle-aged men in an office that smells faintly of pipe tobacco and socks, and of diesel fumes wafting in from the motor pool. Jakes has to work to keep his face straight.

“Something to talk to Henley about,” says Thursday; _That’ll be a brilliant conversation_ , thinks Jakes: _What, exactly, did you and your songbird get up to in bed?_ “Anything else?”

“Just one more crumb. I can’t be precise without more hands-on testing, but I would venture to surmise that Rees had been wearing the duct tape over his mouth for hours before he died. Meaning whoever killed him must have had him under their control since approximately nine, if he was killed just before midnight as rigor and body temperature suggest.”

Thursday frowns thoughtfully, resting his hands on the desk and running his thumb against the edge of his blotter, as if to trace out a line of thought. “Why keep him for those hours without killing him? Was he interfered with?”

The pathologist shakes his head. “No signs of recent sexual activity, either receptive or insertive.”

“Why gag him at all? Must be because he was being kept somewhere he might have been heard,” suggests Jakes eagerly, leaning forwards. It feels like the first new idea they’ve had in ages, the first hint that could lead somewhere concrete. “A flat – or in a car?”

Thursday tilts his head to the side consideringly. “Could be. But could just as easily be common sense.”

Jakes frowns. “Sir?”

Thursday glances to DeBryn, who straightens to speak in a lecturing tone. “Songbirds come with a defense mechanism, sergeant. Instant unconsciousness, by way of a kiss. Taping over the mouth would be an obvious precaution – for anyone who was familiar with songbirds.”

Now that he thinks of it, Jakes remembers having heard something about that before from the men back in Cowley before he left that last night in the pub: _I’ve heard a proper songbird can knock you out with a kiss._ He never had reason to think it was anything more than the usual palaver of half-truths and exaggerations that surround songbirds like a dense mist, obscuring reality. 

He’s been working beside a songbird for a month, and he doesn’t have any greater understanding of that reality. 

Some detective.

“Thank you, doctor,” Thursday is saying, as the two of them rise; Jakes gets to his feet as well, waiting. 

“You’ll call me with any news,” says DeBryn; Thursday nods, and the pathologist sees himself out. The inspector turns to Jakes as he rounds his desk.

“As for us, we have a few more questions for Lord Preston.”

  
***

The day is grey and gloomy when they return to the Henley ancestral home; somehow the vibrancy and life Jakes had noticed in the first visit is gone now. The house looms like a storm cloud over the surrounding grounds, the natural surroundings dull and subdued. It feels more like winter than spring, the wind biting against their cheeks.

Ginette answers the door again; this time she leads them directly into the study and has them wait there. The room is dark and ominous now with the limited light filtering in through the tall French windows; the heavy oak paneling gives a sense of foreboding, while the deep red carpeting lies on the floor like a stain. 

They hear him again before they see him; he’s whistling that same American tune, an upbeat ditty whose cheerfulness is at odds with the heaviness in the room. Henley, when he arrives, is wearing a sharply-cut navy pinstripe suit, his manner brisk and business-like. “Inspector. Sergeant. Welcome back. I understand you have more questions.”

Thursday stands quiet and grim-faced. With his overcoat and hat in hand he looks like an old hard-boiled gumshoe staring down a world he doesn’t approve of. “Yes. But before that, you need to know that further information has come to light which has led us to treat this case as a homicide.”

Henley’s face goes stiff, he stares back for a moment, his eyes slate-grey in the gloom and sharp as flint. Jakes has an impression of banked emotion, some heavy swell of feeling sharply suppressed. “Homicide? Huw wasn’t a man, Inspector, however much he may have resembled one. It’s an important distinction.” 

It shouldn’t be a charged comment. Of course songbirds aren’t men – if they were, keeping them would be slavery, a particularly brutal kind of exploitation. They’re their own unique other, creatures who need humans to survive, who are by their nature tied to them. That’s what he’s always understood, what he’s always believed.

Somehow over the past month, the lines he once knew clearly have become blurred. And the idea that the boy hanging from the tree with the life strangled out of him, thrown away like a worthless piece of trash, should be treated as just a thing… it feels wrong.

Thursday is standing stiffly, eyes hard. When he speaks the words come slowly, like water droplets from a melting icicle. “It is, my lord. We will be pursuing a charge of willful destruction of property in association with this case, not of murder.”

“I think I hardly need to say that I won’t be satisfied with such a meagre sentence.”

“Our duty is to uphold the law,” says Thursday flatly.

Henley looks back with the eyes of a man who’s never backed down from a fight. “Your duty, not mine. It wasn’t you who lost a treasure; I don’t look kindly on those who steal from me.”

“In fact, Lord Preston, we’re in a very similar position. One of my officers has been taken. I will do whatever it takes to find him. If that means razing this city and searching the ashes, that’s what I’ll do. Whatever it takes,” he says, with cold deliberateness, and Jakes is in no doubt that he means it. That he really would destroy anything that stood in his way, anything that even slowed him down.

“You believe his disappearance has something to do with me? I’m afraid I have no dealings with the constabulary, apart from yourselves.” Henley seems unimpressed by Thursday’s determination. He splits a look evenly between the two of them: a dull, disinterested one. Now that the topic has shifted from his dead pet he looks bored, his earlier crispness replaced by lethargy.

“It might have something to do with Huw’s death. He was investigating the case when he disappeared,” says Thursday.

“So your renewed interest in this case has nothing to do with finding Huw’s killer,” drawls Henley. He rounds the desk and takes a seat in the wing-backed leather chair; Jakes half-expects him to prop his feet up on the desk. Instead he produces a thin cigar and lights it, puffing luxuriously. 

“We intend to do both,” says Thursday shortly. “We understand from the pathologist that Huw was bound at some point before his death – for some considerable length of time, possibly over multiple sessions. Do you have an explanation for that?” 

Henley shrugs expansively. “That’s the way he liked it. Feeling helpless, feeling caged. He enjoyed it. It didn’t hurt him; songbirds are very resilient.” 

Jakes suddenly remembers DeBryn’s quiet anger at Morse’s mistreatment on their previous case – his outrage less at the fact of the injury than at the fact that it would cause no stir due to his nature, songbirds being made for rough treatment. 

He understands that anger now in a way he hadn’t before. Now that he can picture the dead boy trussed up for so long even his robust wrists were injured. The boy who his keeper didn’t consider human, didn’t bother to feel compassion for, to grieve his loss.

“Were you in the habit of gagging him?”

Henley blinks. “No. What would be the point of that?” 

“Perhaps he was too noisy,” suggests Thursday, blandly.

“He was very good at controlling himself,” replies Henley, flatly. 

“May we see your room?” asks Thursday, suddenly, surprising Jakes – and apparently Henley as well. 

“Why?” 

“It would help to see somewhere Huw spent much of his time.” It sounds a lame excuse to Jakes, but Henley shrugs. 

“Fine.” He rises and leads them out of the study to the staircase and up the curved staircase. There’s a window at the end of the hallway in front of which a tall table with a bowl full of bright yellow daffodils stands; out the window behind it Jakes can see that it’s started to rain. 

They walk past the door Jakes remembers as Huw’s and stop at the one beside it. Henley opens it and leads them into the entranceway. 

It’s a larger space than Huw’s, and much neater. The furniture is heavy, solid and expensive, the decorating minimalistic with a blue theme. There’s a door that corresponds to the one in Huw’s wall, Jakes steps forward to try it and finds it locked. 

“No point in having it open now,” says Henley, brusquely. 

They look around briefly but there’s nothing to be seen in the sparse room; Henley waits impatiently by the door.

“There was something else, my lord,” says Thursday at last, turning back to the man.

“What?”

“On the night he was killed, Huw spent some time in a club in Cowley. The Rookery. Apparently he was well known there. Witnesses were of the opinion he was there looking for company.”

There’s a long, withering silence. Outside, the rain patters against the windows. 

“Are you suggesting that my songbird was cuckolding me, Inspector?” asks Henley at once, in an icy tone. 

“I’m asking if you knew he was meeting other men, my lord.” 

“As I told you before, as far as I was aware, Huw went into town to buy some records. That’s all. He had free run of the house; when he came and went was up to him, so long as he was here when he was wanted.

Jakes waits a moment to see whether Thursday has a follow-up question. In the silence that spawns, he drops his own.

“Could you describe his bike, sir?” 

Henley gives him a blank look. “It was new. A Philips, painted red.”

Jakes abruptly remembers the red lanterns strung across Huw’s ceiling, bright and cheerful in the exuberant mess of his room. 

“Is that all? I have other business to attend to.”

“That’s all for now, my lord. We’ll keep you apprised of any progress.”

Henley ushers them downstairs and they depart, hurrying down the steps and across the gravel drive in the rain. The wide green park looks more dismal in the rain, the drive and surrounding paths painted even darker grey.

“Notice anything odd about his room?” asks Thursday, as they get in the car.

“Sir?”

“Wooden post bed; Huw’s was the same. Wouldn’t be easy to tie someone to.”

“You think he was lying about the sex games?”

“Could be. Perhaps the boy was more ill-treated than we thought.”

Jakes feels himself tensing at the thought. The memory of a coat-hanger whipping through the air towards bare skin nearly makes him jump; he bites his lip hard and concentrates on driving.

  
***

Thursday sends him and Strange back to the club that evening to conduct more interviews, root out anyone new to speak to. Memories are already growing vague, stories becoming confused. Morse and Huw are beginning to become interchangeable, ‘the songbird’ becoming an acceptable generalization.

They don’t find anything. Not in the club.

What they do find on the next street over is a red Philip’s bike, the seat soaked through with rain.

And so ends Day 2.

  
***

Jakes wakes up on Day 3 to find the story splashed all over the front page of the _Oxford Mail_. **Stolen Songbirds** reads the headline; below it the story goes into the details of the dead Huw and the missing Morse. “Oxford City Police are said to be mobilising all available officers to this search,” it says.

True. Thursday has been talking about the possibility of drafting in additional support from Carshall Newtown, of extending hours and approving double shifts. The longer Morse is missing the lower the possibility he’ll be found alive – they all know it. They need to make the time they have count. 

“Starting today,” says Thursday when Jakes arrives at half-seven to find his boss already there, “we begin considering that Morse’s disappearance might be unrelated to Huw Rees. Look through his past cases, see if you can find anything that might stick. Anyone he rubbed up the wrong way.”

“Yes, sir.”

Before, he would have been thrilled to be given carte blanche to investigate the songbird. Now, the pressure is suffocating. He gets Morse’s records from the file room and sits down to read them with a cigarette in hand. As he starts flipping through, he quickly forgets the fag.

Morse’s first recorded case isn’t as a detective, it’s as material evidence, which seems to be the songbird equivalent of witness. Evidence in the death of his former keeper, Guy Fleming. Jakes gets up again and practically runs to the file room to pull that file. 

Fleming had been a Greats don in Lonsdale college before his murder. He had also been the keeper of one Endeavour Morse, a 25 year-old songbird. The lead detective in the murder enquiry was been Fred Thursday. The file concerns the murder of Fleming from the police perspective rather than Morse’s; there’s scant information on how exactly the songbird became caught up in police work. But obviously somehow he had; his personnel file has him attending Hendon later that year, then spending two years in uniform in Carshall Newtown before being promoted to DC and returned to Oxford. There’s no mention of how he made the transition from being Fleming’s property to Thursday’s.

Afterwards follow several high-profile cases, among them the one which immediately preceded Jakes’ arrival at Oxford, the Mary Tremlett case. None of them, as far as he can see, left behind any grudge-bearing citizens. Three perpetrators were imprisoned, one committed suicide. 

He goes on investigating the files throughout the day, pulling information on more and more peripheral individuals, relatives of the arrested, friends of victims, even members of Morse’s bloody choir.

None of it seems to lead anywhere.

  
***

On Day 4, the depression starts to sink in. The men have been worked off their feet for four days straight, many pulling double shifts, living off coffee and the canteen’s grease-coated food.

They feel no closer to cracking the case. The sense of yesterday’s feverish desperation has drained away, leaving behind a cold, inescapable despair. More men are being assigned to the body search, fewer to the investigation. Thursday spends great swathes of his time locked up in his room doing God knows what, coming out only for coffee and to piss, looking tired and worn-out. When he speaks it’s in short, impatient barks, demands for more information, more progress.

Whatever Morse is to him, it’s clear grief is starting to eat its way into his heart in a way completely unlike Henley, who showed no signs of it. 

That night, Jakes goes on his own initiative to The Rookery. 

He finds nothing new.

  
***

Day 5. Jakes comes in at half-eight as he used to, and finds only Thursday already there. Defeat is in the air, a sense of melancholy failure that tastes of wax and ashes. Wherever Morse is, the odds that he’s still alive are slim. The fact that they’ve failed him is unavoidable.

Jakes begins clearing away the files and notes from his desk, stacking them up to give to the clerk to re-file. At the bottom of the pile he finds the initial interview notes from the Uniform officers who ran the canvassing of Morse’s building. He skims through it again, refreshing himself with the findings. And, partway down the list, stops. 

No one from the flat beside Morse’s was interviewed. The one name on the list, George Nimby, is unticked. It’s not much, but it’s something.

He gets up, looking briefly towards Thursday’s office before continuing on his own; no point in getting the man’s hopes up. 

Outside the air is fresh and clean, but somehow he doesn’t feel free of the sense of failure, of the heavy weight that’s crushing him down into the pavement. He makes the drive over to Morse’s flat feeling a kind of dread: if this fails too, what does that leave them with?

Nothing; the answer reverberates through him like a bell toll, heavy and mournful. 

He rings the buzzer for Nimby and waits to see if anyone will answer. He waits for nearly two minutes before starting to turn away, just as the door opens. “Yes?” A young man is standing tying a tie; he has black robes hooked over his elbow. Clearly a student on the way to class. 

He turns back. “Detective Sergeant Jakes,” he says. “I’m here about your neighbour.”

“Morse, right? I saw it in the paper. Have you found him yet?”

“Not yet. He went missing Monday night; did you happen to notice if he was in at all on Monday?”

“I went to bed early, I remember – I was going up to Edinburg for a series of lectures on Keynesian economics the next day and I wanted a proper rest. I was dreading it: he often plays records late into the night, classical rubbish. He didn’t that night, though. The only think I heard was the phone ringing – after that he left and I didn’t hear him come back in.”

“What time was that?” 

Nimby reflects thoughtfully, tilting his head back to stare past Jakes at the sky. “It was after I turned in. Perhaps ten o’clock?”

So he _did_ come back, thinks Jakes. “Did you happen to hear any of the conversation?”

Nimby shakes his head. “Sorry. The walls aren’t quite that thin.”

“Right. Thanks. Thanks for your help.”

Nimby pushes out past him and down the path to the pavement; Jakes lets him pass. He turns back momentarily, throwing a glance over his shoulder. “Hope you find him.”

  
***

“Sir?”

Thursday looks up wearily. His face has become more lined over the past few days, his unkempt hair falling over his eyes. The week has aged him; he looks old in a way he hadn’t before, old and broken.

“I may have found something. I talked to his neighbour: Morse made it home the night he disappeared; someone rang him and he went out again. Whoever took him, it was someone who knew his number, at least. Someone he wanted to meet. Something personal, maybe? Maybe he was seeing someone,” he suggests. They’re too far down this road to worry about hurt feelings or wounded pride. But Thursday doesn’t seem needled by the suggestion.

“I’ve gone over every personal connection the lad had – none of them panned out. More likely it was something to do with a case.”

“At ten at night?”

“Morse never worried – worries – about time.” Thursday corrects himself, but the mistake lies between them like a freshly-dug grave; there’s no escaping where their thoughts have taken them. No escaping the conclusions they are all inexorably coming to. “It would be someone he had to talk to, something important.” Thursday drops his head into his hands, fingers carding through his hair. “There has to be some clue. _Something_.”

“The only thing that doesn’t fit is the restraints,” says Jakes, slowly. Thursday looks up, eyes narrow and watchful. “Is it a coincidence that Huw was restrained both regularly, and just before he died? In such a way that they left the same marks?”

When Thursday speaks it’s in a slow, thoughtful tone. “Henley? He never met Morse.”

“No. But he _did_ see his picture and name; he had that damn article on his desk – he said something about it when we first met him. All he had to do was look him up in the directory.”

“If he said it was about the case, Morse would have agreed to meet him,” says Thursday, slowly. “It wouldn’t be at the house. Henley’s not that dim.”

“Where else could it have been?”

“Somewhere quiet. Somewhere private, without family members or servants.”

“We could look for other properties Henley owns, something local,” suggests Jakes.

Thursday stands. “It might be easier than that. If he took Morse as a second songbird, he’d want him close.”

  
***

It takes two hours to get a warrant; their evidence is scanty, but judges don’t like missing coppers any more than anyone else, and this is a high-profile case: it’s enough.

Jakes, Thursday and Strange go in first as the vanguard while Bright and the rest finish up confirming that there are no other local properties that might need immediate coverage. 

They arrive just after noon with the sun blazing away overhead, the air thick with the smell of cut grass and clover. They pull up the drive and tuck in behind the furthest out-building, piling out of the Jag with heavy steps. They don’t bother to send anyone up to the main house; they have all the permission they need. 

“Equipped with electricity; all the comforts of home,” says Strange as they come around the front of the first of three outbuildings. Thursday and Jakes are both grimly silent.

The first contains tarp-covered furniture and stacks of boxes and crates, all covered in a layer of dust. The second contains old farm equipment, presumably stored away by a tenant farmer.

The third holds a clean, neat self-contained suite with a sink, dresser, and wrought-iron framed bed. And, tied to brackets on the wall with rope which looks very much like that with which Huw was hanged, Morse. 

He’s hanging from his wrists, legs limp under him and chin resting on his chest. He’s in his shirtsleeves, collar wide open revealing the rise and fall of his pale chest, shirt untucked from his trousers. His delicate wrists are bruised black, dried blood speckled down his arms. 

In the instant of silence that marks the discovery, Jakes has time only to notice the smell – clean air and clover. In his darkest thoughts he had imagined this scene, or one like it, and it had smelled of the horrors of his childhood, of vomit and sweat and piss. 

It’s all Jakes has time to note before Thursday charges forwards to catch Morse and pull him up, taking the weight off his wrists. His head lolls back and Jakes sees the duct tape stamped over his mouth like a scar; he swallows the memories of the past and hurries forward to help.

“Morse? Morse? Hold him up. Gently,” Thursday orders, and digs into his pocket to produce a pocket-knife. He saws through the first of the two ropes tying Morse to the wall and Jakes takes his dead weight, shifting his shoulder under Morse’s arm. “Call a doctor,” Thursday orders; behind them, Strange hurries out of the out building. Thursday’s already cutting away at the last rope; it snaps and Morse collapses. Jakes and Thursday lower him slowly to sit on the floor, Thursday closing in to hold him up.

Even unconscious and battered there’s a beauty to the limp lines of his body, to the curve of his neck and in the way the white cotton of his shirt drapes over his thin form, to the freckles scattered like a dusting of pollen across his chest. Thursday shrugs out of his coat and tucks it over Morse, obscuring some of his elegance; it allows Jakes to concentrate. 

“Morse? _Morse?_ ” Thursday’s voice is gruff with emotion; he shifts to sit beside Morse with the DC propped up against his shoulder, encircled in his arms.

Morse’s eyes flicker, then slide open to reveal a sliver of blue. His head tilts backwards to take in Thursday; he blinks once and the impassivity of his face crumbles to reveal desperation. 

“You’re alright, lad. You’re alright now. I’ve got you.” Thursday reaches up to rest his palm briefly on Morse’s cheek; Morse leans into the touch like a cat seeking out warmth, some of the fear fading from his face. “I’m going to take the tape off, Morse,” says Thursday. He peels a corner free and then, wincing himself, rips the rest off. Morse jerks against them, crying out low and wordless. 

Thursday has just thrown away the balled tape when from somewhere in the distance comes a high piercing sound. Whistling. 

_Swing low, sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home._

Morse stiffens between them, feet scrabbling against the floor to push himself further backwards. 

“Stay with him,” says Thursday, almost inaudibly. Then, before Jakes can stop him, he’s standing and moving to wait in the lee of the doorway. 

The door opens, letting in a bright shaft of light from outside; standing framed in the sunlight is Preston Henley. He steps in, and like a tiger, Thursday charges forward.

The inspector grabs Henley by the collar of his shirt and lifts him forcibly off the ground to slam him into the wall, so hard Jakes can feel it in the wall behind him. “You dirty _bastard_ , you thought we wouldn’t catch you – wouldn’t find you out for the filthy scum you are? I told you I would move heaven and earth to find my man, _you should have believed me_.” 

Henley squirms, trying to get his arms up to push Thursday away; the inspector slams him into the wall again. “Try me. Go on – push me. See if you can beat me down the way you did that poor boy, the way you did Morse. Just you try it,” he growls, voice so ragged the words are hardly understandable, muscles straining against his suit jacket. 

Henley drops his arms, falls limp. Thursday holds him up for a few seconds longer and then tosses him to the side, hard, so that he tumbles and falls into the corner of the room. 

“I’m no murderer,” Henley says with a dirty look, as he wipes a hand across his face. “And you can’t charge me as one.”

Thursday takes a long, deep breath, fists tight. “No. But I can charge you with assault on a police officer, forcible restraint of an officer, grand theft, and obstruction of justice. Along with the original charge of destruction of property, at maximum sentencing you’ll be inside until you’re an old man. I’ll see to that.”

“You’re mad,” says Henley, as Thursday approaches with cuffs.

“No. But you were, to think you could get away with taking my bagman.”

  
***

The rest of the lads arrive shortly after and everything gets very busy. Henley is escorted out, forensics pile in to search the area and photograph evidence, and the doctor arrives to look at Morse. Thursday has by then ushered him away to the quiet privacy of one of the cars and stays sitting with him, still with his coat wrapped around Morse’s shoulders. They neither of them seem willing to part from the other, and while this is the first time Jakes has seen them together like this he’s struck by the fact that Thursday’s affection is careful and gentle – not at all the whirlwind passion he imagines songbirds to entice. It feels closer to the fondness of a mentor for his protégé, guided by a shared bond that doesn’t dip into romance. Perhaps after everything Morse has presumably been through, it’s just Thursday’s effort at thoughtfulness.

The police surgeon cleans and bandages Morse’s wrists while Thursday sits with him, Jakes lingering nearby. 

“He has no other apparent injuries – if I could take him to the hospital…” suggests the doctor; Morse shivers violently, hand closing involuntarily over Thursday’s arm, and Thursday shakes his head.

“No hospital.”

The doctor looks from Thursday to Morse, then sighs. 

“Then you’d best get him home. He’s been starved for days from the looks of it – he needs your attention.” He buckles up his bag and ducks out of the Jag; Jakes waits for him to move out of the way before stepping closer.

“Sir?”

“You’d best take us home, sergeant.”

“Yes, sir.”

  
***

Morse slips into unconsciousness on the way to Thursday’s house, his head resting on the inspector’s shoulder. Thursday hasn’t let go of him once since arresting Henley; Jakes can’t stop his eyes flashing to them in the mirror.

“The doctor said Morse was starved. Which means Henley didn’t touch him. Why?” asks Jakes. Thursday glances at him in the mirror, gaze heavy.

“That’s something Morse will have to answer; Henley’s hardly likely to. But the way I see it, he wanted to dominate, wanted to truly _own_ them, body and soul. Huw wouldn’t surrender himself wholly, so he killed him and took Morse instead. And then, when Morse wouldn’t cave either…” His eyes fall to Morse, a limp weight tucked in against his side. “We ought to’ve found him earlier.”

“We were in time,” says Jakes, the only comfort he can offer. 

Thursday doesn’t answer.

  
***

They carry Morse together up the path to Thursday’s house, Morse hanging between them like a ragdoll. Mrs Thursday answers the door, her face pale with shock at the sight of them. “Fred – what’s happened?” She reaches out to Morse, the tips of her fingers brushing his flame-bright hair.

“He’ll be alright. Just needs some rest, and some time with us. Through here, sergeant.” Thursday leads the way through the house’s narrow hall to the den. “On the sofa,” directs Thursday; Jakes helps lie Morse down, Mrs Thursday hurrying around to lift his feet up onto the cushions. He looks awkwardly to his boss while the man’s wife fusses over his songbird as though he were a child rather than her husband’s plaything, straightening his clothes and plumping a pillow for him.

“Shouldn’t I take him upstairs, sir?” Jakes asks softly, looking to the narrow sofa – it’s no place to be feeding a songbird, especially an injured one. Thursday gives him an odd look, which then clears into one of enlightenment.

“Songbirds need affection, sergeant. Nothing more. The uses they’re put to, the roles we carve out for them – they don’t line up with the truth. It’s us who want them, not the reverse. Us who put them in chains.” Thursday lets his hand rest on Morse’s shoulder, while Mrs Thursday rests his head gently on the pillow. She looks up at her husband, face sorrowful. 

Somehow, he can’t find any words. He feels lost in the wilderness, abandoned by the facts that shaped his world. 

Thursday’s no besotted fool – and Morse is no wanton jade. 

With that realisation, all the incongruities that have been rubbing against him suddenly fit together smoothly, a puzzle reassembled. Thursday and Morse’s apparently professional working relationship, Morse’s bachelor flat, Thursday’s wife’s acceptance of the songbird. It all makes a sudden, stinging sense. 

“But… you own him,” manages Jakes, finally.

“In name,” agrees Thursday. “Someone has to, that’s the law. In practice: it means I come down like a field of goddamn artillery on anyone who touches him without his say-so.” He looks down to Morse and some of the anger bleeds out of his face, leaving it softer and gentler. “You get yourself back to the nick, sergeant. Mr Bright’ll need someone to handle the case – consider yourself assigned. And mind you go home at a decent hour.”

“Yes, sir.”

As he leaves he sees Thursday lifting Morse carefully so he can seat himself behind the DC, positioning Morse to lean against him. The image of that gentleness stays with him late into the night, long after he’s finished at the office gone home. A tenderness he’s never known; one he’s suddenly glad Morse has in his life.


	12. Interlude III

Warmth. The scent of aftershave and pipe tobacco. Strong arms encircling him, his head rising and falling with the movement of a firm chest. 

For a moment Morse lingers in a languid, comfortable limbo, feeling safe and at peace. 

Then the pain begins to flood back in, and with it the memories. The smell of alcohol on Henley’s lips, the biting of rope against his wrists, the days of terror-infused boredom. The slow slide into starvation, through anxiousness and ill-temper on to light-headedness and eventually collapse. 

The sound of whistling, growing closer in the dark.

Morse strikes out with a cry, tumbling off the piece of furniture he’d been sleeping on and catching his elbow a painful crack on something lower. His heart is racing in his ears, his muscles tense and ready to flee. He winds up on his hands and knees, ensnared in some thick covering; he fights against it, shoulders and wrists burning, stocking feet skidding on the carpet.

“Morse – _Morse_ – it’s alright. You’re alright.” Hands on his shoulders pull him up and he catches sight of Thursday’s eyes, tight with concern. The fight goes out of him and he slumps, suddenly dizzy. “You’re alright, lad,” says Thursday softly, his grip lightening. 

He’s in Thursday’s den, Morse realises, wrapped in a knit blanket and crammed in the narrow space between the sofa and the footrest. 

He takes a slow, deep breath and sits up, one arm hooked over the sofa’s seat in support. His shoulders are aching painfully; his wrists feel as though they’ve been seared on a hot element. 

He remembers now. Remembers waking up with Thursday beside him, remembers the inspector taking down Henley, remembers sitting with Thursday in the car, his hand caught tight over Thursday’s wrist in a silent plea: _don’t leave._

“Is everything alright?” 

Morse looks up to find Win in the doorway, her eyes shadowed with concern. She steps forward as he scrambles up, hurrying over to help him. “Here, love – let me,” she says as she resettles him beside her husband on the sofa, straightening the blanket. Behind her he notices that the television is on without the volume turned up; clearly Thursday was watching a football match while Morse slept. “Let me fetch you something to drink – some hot tea to warm you up.”

“With brandy,” suggests Thursday, before Morse can argue. “And could you shut off the telly, pet?” he adds. Win hustles over to the set and switches it off, before hurrying out of the room and into the kitchen behind; Morse can hear her filling the kettle. 

Feeling guilty but also overheated, he untucks the blanket from under his chin and lowers it to his waist; his shirt cuffs are unbuttoned and flapping loose over his wrists and even the butterfly-light press of the cloth against his skin is painful. He rolls up the right cuff, revealing the length of bandage creeping up his forearm. 

“Alright?” asks Thursday, taking his left cuff from him and making a far neater job of it than Morse did the right. His eyes linger on Morse’s open collar and Morse looks down. His shirt is unbuttoned one button below the top of his vest, revealing the sharp lines of his collarbone and his bare skin. The dog tag is gone. 

“Henley took it,” says Morse, slowly, reaching a hand up to feel the absence of its brush against his skin, one he’s known all his life. “He said I belonged to him, that he would keep me there until I accepted it. Until I had eyes only for him.”

“Morse –”

Morse doesn’t let him finish, breaks in heatedly, “He owned Huw – possessed as much of another as it’s possible to do. And that wasn’t enough for him. He wanted to control every aspect of Huw’s life, wanted him to live only for him. The boy was too young to understand, and too headstrong. The more Henley tried to control him, the more he tried to break free. That last night Henley let him out after days in the room and he made for the club to try to find someone to take him away. But Henley found him and brought him back – this time to die for his betrayal. He ended Huw’s life – wrung it out of him to feel the boy die. And it still wasn’t enough for him. So he tried to take me, make me his.”

“Only you refused. Course you did; you’re the most stubborn creature I know, Morse.” Thursday rests a hand on Morse’s shoulder, the warmth of it present through his cotton shirt. It reminds Morse of his famine, of the hunger eating away at his insides. But he’s not free of the memories, not free to take what he needs. 

“He wanted mastery in every sense of the word. If I had been his…” his eyes flash to Thursday, who looks back evenly. 

“You’re not, Morse. You never will be.”

Morse tries to shrug away. “Because of a twist of fate. I could easily have been that boy, have been sold to someone like Henley instead of Guy – instead of you.”

“Don’t dwell, lad. You weren’t. That’s all that matters.”

There’s a quiet knock at the door and Win steps in, bearing a cup of tea and a pair of biscuits. “The biscuits are for Fred, love – you know how much he likes them,” she says with a gentle smile. Morse reaches out and takes the cup and saucer from her; it clatters in his unsteady grip, and he puts more effort into holding it smoothly. 

“Ta,” says Fred, pinching one of the biscuits off the saucer. 

“Thank you,” says Morse in a softer voice, taking a sip. He occasionally had tea at Guy’s house parties, drinking to please his keeper’s sense of hospitality. Win’s tea is sweeter and more flavourful, with the added kick of the brandy. 

“Do you need anything else?” asks Win, hovering.

“A proper meal is what he needs,” says Thursday, eying Morse critically. “And maybe a good long soak in the tub afterwards.”

“I’ll fetch some towels.” Win bustles out. 

Morse knows he doesn’t smell; songbirds grow more fragrant with sweat, not more rank. But Thursday’s right, the idea of washing the grime off – real or imagined – appeals. “Finish up your feed, and we’ll see about the bath,” promises Thursday. 

“I can go now. You’ve already been sitting here with me for – what? Hours?” Hungry as he is, being a burden weighs him down heavily. 

“And are you feeling better for it? Because you don’t look it,” says Thursday, frankly. “You were gone for days, Morse. I can spare the time,” he adds, in a softer tone. 

It’s suddenly too much. Sitting here in the Thursday’s small den filled with knick-knacks and the smell of something savoury wafting in from the kitchen, the contrast with the past five days is so sharp it feels like a physical blow. A shudder runs through him, tea cup shaking and tea slopping over the sides and down into the saucer. 

“Here now,” says Thursday, and takes the teacup away from him hastily, reaching out to put it down on the end table beside the sofa. “Hey, you’re alright. Morse?” He sits up, feet sliding off the foot rest, and pulls Morse into a one-sided embrace, holding him tight. “You’re safe now, Morse. I promise you that.”

Torn between famine and embarrassment, he ducks his head and lets Thursday hold him.

  
***

It’s some time later, after the children have come home and been warned off bothering their father in the den, that the phone rings. The shrill noise rouses Morse from his half-slumber, warm and comfortably curled up against Thursday like an ivy vine entwined about an oak. He’s just stretching when Win comes in, “It’s Mr Bright, Fred,” she says, quietly.

Thursday rises, padding out of the room. The telly’s on again and Morse turns to watch it. Some news programme, which without sound holds little meaning for him. His tea cup disappeared sometime while he was dozing; he wonders whether he should ask for another to please Win. He doesn’t want it, but songbird’s aren’t permitted to have likes and dislikes, only to do as their keepers desire. Even in his carefully-tailored relationship with the Thursdays, he’s not been able to leave behind decades of training. 

He’s not sure whether that’s a fault or an asset. 

Thursday returns after a few minutes to find him watching the news with his brow furrowed, trying to make out the topic of discussion. Something to do with civil rights in America, he thinks, but more than that he can’t make out. 

“Laurel wreaths all ‘round,” reports Thursday, looking down at him. “Mr Bright is to no end pleased.”

“Really? He recovered a songbird at the expense of a lord.” Morse makes it sound like finding a pence and losing a pound. 

Thursday frowns. “You ought to give yourself more credit. The whole station’s been out combing the city for you day and night. You’re a valuable officer, Morse. And once you’re a copper, you’re worth more than any lord to the rest of the nick.”

“And Huw? What was he worth?” asks Morse.

“You know how I feel, lad. It was murder, plain and simple. But that’s not the law. Not yet. Maybe someday things will change. ”

Morse looks back to the television; there’s a picture of a flood of coloured people marching in the streets. The press lately has been covering the movement; President Johnson has sent voting rights legislation to Congress, a bill to remove voter registration tests. With its passing will come a huge step forwards in civil liberties for Americans of colour.

Perhaps their dedication and spirit can serve as a model for others who live lives of oppression and injustice. Others, including himself. Maybe times are beginning to change.

“Maybe they will,” he agrees.

THE END – FOR NOW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> After a break for some time to think, I am considering starting up a prequel to this; seems like there's some interest at least in it.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Pretty Things](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12399981) by [Jemisard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jemisard/pseuds/Jemisard)
  * [Untitled](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13820700) by [coldlikedeath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldlikedeath/pseuds/coldlikedeath)




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